Home Fires
by ENester
Summary: Returned. The waning days of WWII and the end of Stalag 13 as seen though Robert Hogan's family. Companion to War and the Home Front, but can be read alone.
1. Chapter 1

**About ****_Home Fires: _**

This story was born on a whim in 2008, grew, developed, and then was lost due to life changes. However, I return to finish now, in 2012.

While watching historical accuracy, I am going to warn of some slight inaccuracies that will occur to smooth out plot. Only you history buff's will notice, but my Allied invasion timeline is going to be a few days off the mark, as is the approximate location. Additionally, Hammelburg, Germany will be moving to a more convenient location. Then again, changing historical details is in the cannon...

Finally, I do not own Hogan's Heroes, or any cannon characters or plot thereof. However, the Hogan family and additional OCs are all my own.

* * *

**June, 1942**

Dear Mom,

I am well, I am safe, and I love you. I am now permanently stationed at LuftStalag 13 until the war ends or I escape, whichever happens first. But don't worry Mom, I won't try anything risky. I am the only officer here at camp, which means that I am responsible for the morale and well being of several thousand men. I think that will keep me busy enough. They are a very international and good spirited lot – even the little Frenchman in my barracks – and I very much...

Your loving son,

Rob

**December, 1942**

Dear Dad,

I am well, I am safe, and I love you. Christmas is fast approaching us here at Stalag 13. It isn't quite like Christmas back at the States and not quite how I imagined spending this one. I'm sure you didn't imagine spending it this way either. But all is fair in love and war, right? However, some men and I are working hard to keep morale up as many of the soldiers are spending their first Christmas away from their families. I remember how Newkirk made my Christmas in England special for me and am doing my best to return the favor. (1) Did I ever tell you that story, Dad? It was late December...

Do not fret, Dad. Enjoy Christmas as much as ever with Mom and Greg and Emma...and that boy of hers Danny – if they haven't broken up or tied the knot by now – and be merry. That's what Christmas is all about.

With love,

Rob

**March 1943**

Dear Sis,

I am well, I am safe, and I love you. I finally received your letter from this summer about your wedding. The Germans must have thought wedding was code for tunnel. Congratulations! Danny is a wonderful man and I know the two of you will be very happy. I have no gift to send you other than the kisses I am planting on this paper. You are constantly in my thoughts. The happiness of you and Danny makes plowing through a German winter in a POW camp nearly bearable. We fight for you, dearest Emma. In the long nights as we huddle close under our blankets, I tell the men of you as if it were a motion-picture film unfolding before me. Do not worry unduly about me though. The conditions, while not Hilton standards, are respectable, and our Kommandant – although a German – is reasonable and responsive to our concerns. Therefore...

My love to everyone, especially you.

Always yours,

Rob

**September, 1943**

Greg,

Greetings to my fellow brother in arms! (2) I just found out recently from Mom's letter that Uncle Sam more or less dragged you into this European inferno. For that I am very sorrowful – you were always the healer; healers and soldiers seem to be mutually exclusive professions. I am far more sorry that I can no longer conceal the horrors of war by being painfully optimistic in letters. You too have seen the bloodshed and know, as a only a doctor can, that it is nothing beautiful, or valiant, or victorious.

I grow dark, I apologize. Perhaps it is the gloom of the search lights which penetrate my barred window. I have stared at them so often in the past year and a half that my mind plays their patterns in my dreams. But I am alive. I am safe. You are also alive and safe on your hospital ship. The war cannot last forever, and I look forward to the day in when I will beat you in baseball again or tickle Emma until she cries. We have it so good, Greg. The war will not last forever. And from from my Stalag...

All my love,

Rob

* * *

**April 15, 1945**

**Hogan Home**

**Indianapolis, Indiana**

Regina Hogan placed this last faded letter covered with her son's spidery writing on top of the small pile. It was a sad collection – just over two years of Robert's painfully cheerful letters from a Stalag in far away Germany. Still, it was her last and only link to her eldest. Sometimes, in rereading the words, she could almost hear his voice echoing over her shoulder.

Hand shaking slightly, Regina placed bound the letters with a pink ribbon and slid a rose between the paper and the bow. Then, she returned them to the desk drawer. She knew that when evening came her husband would be thumbing through these very papers and she wanted to them to appear untouched. Although she and Rodger never spoke of these readings, they were both very aware of the other's activities. Sometimes, it was easier to say nothing.

The front door slammed. Regina smiled slightly. Greg was home from the office; he never did master the art of closing the door quietly. His tour of duty had came and went and deposited him safely home again. For that, Regina would be eternally thankful to whichever deity watched over her family. One son in the war was more than enough.

"Greg dear, would you please turn off the oven on your way to the radio?" Regina called sweetly to her son.

Below, a voice chuckled. "How did you know it was me?"

"Everyone else in the Hogan family has the manner to shut a door gracefully, _especially _if that family member comes unannounced. This isn't your permanent home anymore you know."

Regina zipped up her sweater and walked downstairs to join her middle son. She was just in time to see Greg switch off the oven and plop down by the radio. He looked up at her and smiled.

"If you want me to leave, why don't you just say so?"

They shared an impish grin for a moment, then Regina sat down next to him on the sofa. "You really should get a radio at your place," she said, tuning the dial. Then she added, "but I would be okay if it didn't happen that quickly."

She found the news station and their grins quickly faded as the broadcaster reported the latest war news. Greg was quiet, all traces of their earlier banter gone from his face. Ever since he had returned from the army, he was much more serious in all aspects of life. For Regina, it was just another painful reminder of what the war had cost her family.

"And now our reports from the Eastern Front. As you have been hearing, the Russian forces are now deep into Germany. The Nazis are throwing everything they have at the rapidly approaching Soviets, but it is clear that they know they are beat. From what our intelligence can gather, everyone and everything is fleeing the Soviets leaving only ghost towns. The German army is retreating further towards its capital, and taking everything they can with them, from priceless art to prison camps. Furthermore -"

Regina snapped off the radio and found her son staring at her. "From priceless art to prison camps," she echoed dumbly. Her thoughts spun rapidly. Did "taking everything" mean relocation of the prisoners, or did it mean mass executions? Surely even the Germans wouldn't execute POWs? But then again, she wasn't even sure Robert was still alive. The last letter had come in 1943. Two full years ago. Much could happen in that time – much _had _happened.

"Mom, it's okay. Breathe." Greg placed his large hand on her shoulder and Regina pulled her emotions back in check. Listening to her middle son made things easier. "We don't know if what that means. We don't know if Rob is still in that LuftStalag. We don't even know..."

Greg trailed off. Now was now the right time to ponder the morbid implications of Rob's silence. Regina appreciated her son's tact. Although they both had those same thoughts, if the thoughts weren't spoken they were easier to fight.

She sighed, and Greg pulled his hand from her shoulder. "Tell you what," he said. "I'll call in some favors with a few of my army friends. They owe me. I'll have them check on Rob's status again. Maybe something has come though this time."

Regina smiled up at his long figure. "What would I do without you?" she asked, more to herself than Greg. Her son only smiled, tussled her hair as if she were but a child, and hurried off to the telephone by the front door.

Alone on the sofa for a few moments, Regina cuddled against the pillows, wishing Rodger was at home instead of at the office. Or even Emma, with little Bryan playing at her feet. Her grandson always made things better, although Regina wouldn't admit to herself that she was old enough to have a grandson.

A few minutes later, Greg returned. He leaned in the doorway, his face impassive. Immediately, Regina knew. She asked anyway, hoping she was wrong.

"Any news?" she asked cheerfully.

Greg stared at her then shook his head in disbelief. "Colonel Robert E. Hogan is reported dead."

* * *

(1) See _War and the Home Front _Chapter 4 for a detailed explanation of the events.

(2) Again from _War and the Home Front. _Greg Hogan is drafted to serve as a medical officer on a hospital ship (historically accurate) for a tour of duty. Although no profound events occur while Greg is on the ship, the experience leaves him a changed man.


	2. Chapter 2

**April 15, 1945**

**Emma and Danny's Apartment**

**Indianapolis, Indiana**

Bryan was crying. He had quiet a set of lungs for a thirteen month old; Emma Hogan Greene vaguely wondered if he might have a career as a musician. She could imagine him as a trumpet player in a big band exploding riffs like Louis Armstrong. Or perhaps a sports announcer – shouting about history as it happened to the world. Anything, anything but a soldier.

That was, of course, assuming the war would be over by then. It should be. By all reports, the conflict in the European theater was simply waiting for the inevitable – a wait that would cost thousands of people, soldier and civilian alike, their lives. Then again, war coverage in Indiana was horribly biased towards the Allies. The Pacific theater, however, was a grim picture. Emma feared all the soldiers would simply ship from Germany to an island half a lifetime away.

Emma picked up her screaming child and pushed away thoughts of the war. She had far too many of them. Bryan quieted in her arms and she responded by smoothing his hair. Hopefully for Bryan, talk of war would be but a memory. He would not know of a world where goods were rationed and the fate of loved ones was uncertain. War would be something of history books, a term used as a metaphor instead of literally. He would laugh at Emma's penny-pinching ways and Victory Gardens and take her ration books as keepsakes. Emma would love it all.

The telephone rang and Bryan stirred in her arms. Sighing, she set him back in his crib and picked up the receiver, hoping her son's restless mumbles would not turn into a wail.

"Greene's," she answered, her name of three years still sounding unfamiliar. She wondered how long until she internally considered herself a Greene instead of a Hogan.

"Emma?" It was her mother. Emma smiled.

She answered, "Mom! I wasn't expecting to hear from you today. Anything wrong?"

There was a moment of silence, and in that moment Emma knew something was.

"Emma, dear, I need you to come over to the house right away."

"What? Mom? Danny is going to be home in a few minutes and I have dinner to finish. Can it wait?" _Please, please let it be something that can wait._

Regina Hogan's voice was tight as it came out of the receiver. "No, I'm afraid it can't. Please, just come. Let the dinner spoil, I have food here. Wait for Danny if you must, but I need you here. Please, Emma." With the way Regina said her name, Emma knew she must comply.

"As soon as Danny is home, I'll come Mom. I promise."

**Hogan Home**

Twenty minutes later, Danny's old Ford slid into Rodger and Regina's front drive. A light rain was falling and Emma pulled Bryan closer to her chest. He tugged playfully at her dangling brown locks. Greg's Chevrolet was parked along the street, and she could see her father's through the window in the garage.

Regina Hogan ran outside to greet them. "Come in, hurry. I don't want my grandson out in this mist."

"I don't intend to let that happen," Danny replied, smiling. As if to prove his point, he placed an arm around Emma and walked her up the drive. She protested, claiming she was not yet an old lady, but allowed him to steer her into the hallway. Regina took Bryan from her daughter and led them to the sofa. Rodger sat in his usual overstuffed armchair, staring into space. In the distance, Emma could hear her brother's voice on the telephone.

"Mom?" Regina asked gently as her mother pressed a steaming mug of tea – a relatively rare item due to rationing – in her hands. "Care to explain?"

Regina looked distraught, running her fingers through her salt and pepper hair. "Well, it would be better coming from Greg, but he's..." she turned and looked towards the kitchen, "...is just coming now."

The middle Hogan sibling leaned against the wall. He, too, looked tired and distraught. "So Mom and I were listening to the radio yesterday when the announcer spoke of the advancing Russian army destroying everything in Germany – even military camps. And, of course, I thought of Rob. As you know, it has been months since we've heard from him. I got in touch with a fellow I know from my stint in the army who works at the Pentagon. He pulled some strings for me and I got see the Stalag 13 files. As far as he knew, Stalag 13 was just to the west of the Russian Front. But when he looked at Rob's file it listed him as...as...a casualty of prison violence."

"What? Rob? No. No, it can't be. Rob!" Emma squeezed her husband's hand and buried her face in his shoulder. She had considered this possibility from the moment Rob had been shot down, but she had always seen her brother as too much of a survivor to die like all the other soldiers. She know realized how painfully wrong she had been.

Next to her, Danny was stiff and Emma could tell that he was thinking. The room was silent for a moment after the gravity of Greg's words. Finally he spoke.

"What about the letter? Why haven't we received a letter?"

Greg unfolded his arms uncomfortably. Emma knew how much he detested being the bearer of bad news. "I asked my friend in the Pentagon about that too. He said that while sometimes the letters take a few weeks to arrive, especially in these final stages, Rob's death date was over two months ago. He seemed to think we should have received our letter before that. For some reason, however, someone decided to wait. How long and why, we don't know. The Pentagon list, though, is as official as it gets. If the army thinks that Rob is dead, it will show up first at Allied High Command second shortly after in Washington before it shows up anywhere else."

"In other words, it's the same old game," Rodger Hogan said from his chair. Everyone looked at him in surprise; he had been so unusually quiet that he had left their field of observation. "We don't know. Only know, we have even more of a reason to be pessimistic about the outcome."

Regina hurried over and slid into his lap, placing her tiny arms around his broad shoulders. Emma loved how her parents weren't afraid to act like they loved each other. Most married women she knew never sat on their husband's lap in company, herself included.

"Rodger, dear, there is nothing to get worked up about. There never is and never was anything we could do but wait. Wait for the official word that our son is dead." She leaned against his chest, the effort of being strong for her husband overwhelming her.

The last letter from Robert had been in nearly two years ago, more of his optimistic nonsense that told them nothing at all. Not as if anything other then the sweet nothings wouldn't be censored out anyway. They told one another that was normal. Mail service to POW camps in war-zones was noticeably unpredictable. It was April. The Pentagon had reported him dead in February. That left more than a month to account for. That month withstanding, two months was still more than enough time to contact the next of kin to the soldier, even considering the sheer increase in volume of dead soldier that had come ever since D-Day.

Emma bit her lip, her thoughts swirling in her head. "Something isn't right," she said finally.

Everyone looked at her. "Of course it isn't right," Danny soothed. "Your brother is at best MIA and at worst dead. Of course you feel this way."

Shaking her head, Emma pulled away from her husband's shoulder where she had been leaning. "No. Something isn't normal about Rob's status. I mean, we don't get a letter for two years. Two years! That ought to be a starting reason. Second, the Pentagon's file says Rob's dead but they don't bother to tell the family? Say what you will about the Department of Defense, but lazy about notifying the family is not one of its faults. Why is that? Why would they want his file to read deceased, but not tell his family?"

"Because Rob isn't really dead," Greg whispered, his eyes locking on his sister. "Because, for some reason, the Pentagon wants to tell anyone military who checks on Rob to think he's dead, but not upset his family. They know the war is almost over, just like we know and once it is, they must be counting on the truth coming out."

Next to her, Danny snorted. "That is a _lot _of speculation in one breath. We can hardly presume to understand the Pentagon."

"But something isn't right," Emma persisted. "Admit it. If Rob were just an ordinary POW in an ordinary POW camp, Allied High Command would have authorized our notification."

Rodger Hogan looked interested in the conversation for the first time that evening. "Are you suggesting that Rob was something other than ordinary? I mean, besides the fact he was a Colonel?"

"Can you see another other reason?" Emma asked.

"The army has a million reasons for doing what it does, and usually they don't involve anything...covert or malicious concerning their soldiers," her father said sharply.

"No," Greg said, louder this time. "I think Emma is right. One of my nurses had a POW brother who was shot while escaping. Remember? I told you about Susan. Anyway, her family was notified a week after his reported death date. And that was only six weeks ago. Rob's my brother, and Emma' sister, and your son! I don't intend to let the army play games with our family any longer! I served my time. Rob has more than served his time."

Emma hadn't seen her brother so passionate in years. Not since his army days, or even before, in his med school days. It unnerved her slightly to see the monster she had unleashed. But still, she did agree. "Greg is right. It is time we stopped passively watching this war destroy our family."

Next to her, Danny shifted uncomfortably. No one on his side of the family was more than monetarily involved in the war effort, and she knew the entire conversation put him in deep water. She also knew that whatever decision she reached today, he would stand by it. It was one of the many reasons she loved him.

"And just what do you intend to do?" Regina asked slowly. Emma could see that she was itching for the truth as much as any of them, but needed to play the voice of reason. "Emma, you have a 13 month old. You can't just go tearing off into a warzone. Bryan needs you!"

At the sound of his name, Bryan looked up from where he was playing with his stuffed dog called Toby. Emma played a quick match of peek-a-boo with him, and then he returned to his attention to Toby. For his part, Toby looked impassive about the situation.

"And you, Greg!" Regina said a little firmer this time. "You have patient that count on you in the hospital. You have a career. Think before you throw it away."

Greg left the wall and knelt down beside their mother, taking her hands in his. "Mom, I do have a career and a well established life. But none of that means anything if I don't have a family. I don't have a wife, and I don't have children. You and Dad and Emma and Danny and Bryan _and _Rob are part of that. You are the reason that I work and have a career. If Rob is gone, that is one major reason I have for living that doesn't exist anymore."

"Son," Rodger said, looking down at him from the big armchair. "I'm proud of you and I'm going to support you in any way I can. Regina, you know he's right, admit it."

"Thanks Dad," Greg said, standing. "I'm going to call some more of my army contacts. I have another good friend high up in Washington. And Rob wasn't just a nobody. Playing my cards right, I might be able to figure out some truth."

"We'll help too," Emma said, squeezing her husband's hand. "I know I need to be with Danny, but I'll write to a friend of mine from school who is working with the Red Cross over there. And I'll see if I can reconnect with Aunt Nancy."

Regina looked startled. "Nancy? Honey, I don't know if that's the best I did. My sister is at best eccentric. That's the reason we stopped seeing her so long ago. I don't know how she would react to a letter from us after all these years."

"But she's in Poland, Mom. She might know something we can't find out from the radio."

Sighing, Regina nodded. "Alright. But be _tactful."_

Emma raised her mug of luke warm tea in the air, making a toast. "For Robert," she said. "The soul of this family."

Raising mugs of tea or empty hands in the air, her family followed suit.

"For Robert."

* * *

Thousands of miles away, a man looked up at the grey skies. He marveled how he had gotten to this place. In all his exploits, in all his capers and close-scrapes, he'd never imagined himself where he was today. But perhaps that was why he had always been successful: he hadn't thought fully about the consequences. _Almost _always successful, he corrected himself.

It was bitterly cold for April, and he shivered under his thin clothes. Nobody knew he was here, and nobody would help him out. It fell on his thin shoulders, and for the first time, he didn't think he would be able to pull it off. And although there were thousands of people around him, for one of the first times in his life, Robert Hogan felt utterly alone.


	3. Chapter 3

**April 16, 1945**

**Emma and Danny's Apartment**

**Indianapolis, Indiana**

If there was anything Emma Hogan Greene hated, it was an argument. There were few things worth fighting over, and most of those could be settled in better ways than through angry words and physical brawls. Arguments led to feuds, which led to grudges, which led to annulled marriages or warring countries. That was all wars ever were when it came down to it. Sure, there were always ideals of populism and freedom and equality through around, but it all boiled down to two or three men (for it wasn't inevitably men) trying to one up one another from a grudge and getting a lot of innocent kids to throw the punches for them. Such men were too civilized to engage in bar-fights like normal testosterone driven males.

At the moment, Danny Greene and Greg Hogan were two such men. Danny had a hot streak in him, Emma admitted. It was one of the things she was trying to...fine tune about him. But if he got mad at her, which happened occasionally, Emma wouldn't yell back at him like Greg was doing. Instead, she'd reach into their box of petty cash and give him a five dollar bill. "Spend it on cheap beer and pick a fight with the next guy you see and pretend it's me," she'd say. "When you are sore and bruised and hung over, we'll talk." Sometimes, Danny took the cash, but usually he would be too guilty about spending their savings on beer and calm down. At any rate, Emma considered it an investment.

Greg Hogan, unlike his brother-in-law, was much more reserved. It took a lot to get his blood racing, either in excitement or rage. However, he wouldn't let any sucker walk over him either. Growing up with an older brother like Rob meant that Greg had participated in more than his fair share of fights. So while fist fights and shouting matches didn't get his blood pumping, Greg still knew how to get the best of both Rob and now Danny.

_Rob. _He was the reason for the fight, as usual. Not directly his fault, but still the instigator. Emma swore that once her brother got back in the States, she'd give him a good lecture that would make Regina Hogan proud.

"I thought we agreed last night that we needed to get to the bottom of this! Are you changing your mind? Is Rob not important enough now that you've slept on it?" Emma recognized her brother's angry tones from the kitchen where she sat trying to convince Bryan that the mush in front of him was indeed tasty sweet corn. She had rarely heard her brother this biting and winced at his words.

"That's low and you know it," Danny said coldly. "I agreed we needed to get to the truth. But I don't think it's in anyone's best interest for you to go gallivanting off to Washington!"

"And what do you propose we do? Wait until Uncle Sam finally decides to tell us what's going on? Wait until we got Rob's dogtags home in a box? I have used my options up! We've written all the letters we know to write and those could take weeks for anything to appear. I've called everyone I know, but I've only gotten a load of red tape."

"Maybe the red tape means we need to stay away. Greg, we're not being told for a reason. Poking around this is like messing with the wires on an unexploded bomb. More often than not, you're going to blow yourself up."

"It's not that -"

Danny interrupted. "Listen to me for a second," he said, calmer now. "I can't stop you from going. You are a grown man and can do with your life what you will. You have more contacts than I do in Washington anyway. But I can't just up and go, Greg. I have a wife. I have a small child. They need my income and my support. Do you want me to leave your sister and nephew to starve while we investigate corruption in the capital?"

There was silence then. Emma could sense that the fight had finally gone out of the both of them. Perhaps it was finally time to involve herself, especially if Danny was going to use her as a tool. Just then, Bryan burped up the little bit of corn she had managed to force down. "I'm not much for it either," she said wiping the greyish lumps of food off his chin.

"Danny, I need you." This time Greg's voice was quieter, full of sadness. "I can't do this alone. I'm a doctor! I served in the military for 14 months as an impromptu surgeon. Doctors just don't think like military men and I'm afraid I'm going to overlook something important. Dad is going to take some of my patients while I'm gone – I can't ask him. My friends have careers and families and asking them to leave is too much. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked you, I just...didn't know what else to do."

Guilt from both parties hung in the air and Emma could sense defeat. The chances of finding Rob were slipping away, she could feel it. Their finding out the truth was a long shot at best and a family guilty and divided made that shot asymptotically zero. Such a different atmosphere than the hope of the last evening.

Emma lifted Bryan from his highchair and squeezed him. She hadn't wanted to do this, but it now seemed like the fates had called upon her to make this sacrifice. Her father had served in the Great War, one of the last calvary soldier. His knee had never been the same. Her mother had given up her dreams of college to work in a factory to support her younger siblings when her own father, Emma's grandfather and a career navel officer – had been shot. His wife caught tuberculosis and died the following spring. Rob had suffered in a POW camp and was now MIA. Greg took his tern on a hospital ship off the coast of Africa. The Hogan family all sacrificed for war, and now it was Emma's turn. Sacrifice was not limited to her male siblings.

"Danny?" Emma called, heading into the front room. Her voice broke the silent tension that had been building. She found her husband on their sofa, cradling a glass of something – probably brandy. Across the room, Greg sat slumped on his chair, cradling his head in his hands. Danny looked up when she came in carrying Bryan.

"I suppose you are here to accuse me of being unfaithful to Rob too," he said sullenly. Clearly, Greg's words had scathed him.

She said down besides him and ran her fingers down his back. "Of course not, dear," she said. "I think you'll do everything in your power to help us find the truth." Danny's back grew less tense beneath her fingertips. "I just think that you and Greg should consider other options before deciding what you use that power for."

Greg sat up. "As I told Danny, I _have _tried other options. And unless you plan on twitting your thumb until dear Aunt Nancy writes us back, I need to go to Washington. And I need someone to accompany me." He looked at her accusingly. "I thought you supported all of this? And now you are taking _his _side."

"Because she understands that Bryan can't live off air!" Danny said. The tension returned to the room and to his back.

"Not at all boys," Emma said sweetly. They looked annoyed at her slur. Good. "I just think there is one more angle to all of us. Danny, darling, I'm not helpless, but you are right. I would be a struggle to support myself and Bryan without your income. But Greg, you are also right. You need an extra pair of eyes. But if one extra pair is good, two is better. _I _can go with both of you."

They both stared at her, so Emma continued. "I know Mom will look after Bryan while we're gone, she's volunteered loads of times. And sometimes a woman can open doors that men never know existed."

She paused to let them sort out their emotions. Then, as both Greg and Danny began to protest loudly, she knew she had convinced them. After all, she made sense and sooner or later, they would see that too. They just needed a little feminine persuasion. _Bryan_, she thought, _promise me you don't grow up and be daft like most men._

**April 17, 1945**

**Office of Lt. Colonel Henry Bradshaw**

**Washington D.C, USA**

Greg's military friend, as it turned out, was not as high up in Washington's Department of Defense as Emma has assumed. A mere Second Lieutenant straight from West Point, Alex Burbank had served his first combat assignment on Greg's hospital ship. Recently, he had been transferred to D.C. for some desk time before he could consider climbing the ranks. In their phone calls, Alex had explained to Greg time and again that he had the clearance to pull individual files on soldiers, but not see more than the basic information. Red tape, Greg had called it.

What Alex Burbank lacked in rank, however, he gained in connections. His father happened to be the senior staff advisor to the Democrat Senate Whip, a Representative from Florida. And when Alex asked favors, most people hoping to be anyone in the Department of Defense jumped to assist him and grumble about the injustice of family power later, behind his back. Lt. Colonel Bradshaw was just one of those people – someone who had been gunning for promotion to full Colonel for years.

Lt. Colonel Bradshaw was the man Emma Greene had been trying to reach all day. They had left at noon the pervious afternoon, after concluding their argument and leaving Bryan in Regina's trusty arms. The drive had taken them well into the night, and by the time they had checked into a seedy motel at the outskirts of D.C., it was 3:00 am and the hotel manger had given them the room at half the rate.

Early that morning they had risen and contacted Alex Burbank. After the compulsory hugs, condolences, and reminiscing, Danny and Greg had called around to find one of the few people who could help. Meanwhile, she and Alex had practiced the spin of presenting their request to the official.

After another incident of cajoling the men to let her take a driving shift, the Hogan males had concluded that she was best for the persuading role. Around noon, Greg located the Bradshaw and Alex had convinced him to see the Hogans late that afternoon.

Emma had changed into her best skirt and blouse, shrugging off Danny's protests...again. "Men like single women," she said to him. "It's the oldest rule in the book. He'll be much more included to help us if he thinks he can the favor of a single woman out of the deal. So play nice, and be Danny _Hogan, _another concerned brother. And don't worry – I won't let him get out of hand."

If all appearances were to be judged, Emma had judged Bradshaw right. Upon laying eyes on her, he was instantly more cordial. He bent low, kissed her momentarily ringless hand – twice – and offered them all brandy.

"t's nice to see that all me haven't forgotten their manners," Emma said smoothly as he was kissing her hand. "My brothers could take a lesson. I'm Emma Hogan, we spoke on the phone. It's nice to actually meet you in person. And these, of course, are my brothers, Greg and Danny."

"Charmed," Bradshaw said, offering the brandy to each of them in turn. "Although terribly moved by the circumstances in which we meet. The war seems to make everything less charming."

Danny grunted. "It doesn't seem to have hit you that hard." From her neighboring chair, Emma nudged him. Fortunately, Bradshaw misunderstood.

"I assure you, Mr. Hogan, I take each soldier's story to heart, although clearly I cannot be as moved as you. Nothing transcends the bonds of brotherly affection...except perhaps the bonds of sisterly affection."

Emma smiled grimly. "Yes. It has been hard on us all. And that's why we're here today, Mr. Bradshaw -"

"Henry."

"Henry. To find out what happened to our dear sibling. I try not to interfere with the workings of the army, but when it fails to notify or confirm the most basic status..." Here, Emma paused dramatically. "I hope you don't think me rude, Henry, but I just couldn't sit and wait anymore. It's unfair to all those other poor sisters out there, I know."

The Lt. Colonel smoothed his salt and pepper hair. "You don't need to explain yourself, dear. Unlike some officers, I am most compassionate for the loved ones. It is you that we are fighting for. So tell me, what is it that I specifically can do for you? I'm not a magician, but I do have contacts." He leaned in closer to Emma and ran his hand down her arm, stopping at her hand and squeezing it. Hard.

She returned his squeeze, her insides doing backflips. "I just want to see his file, see who ordered him to be marked as deceased and who ordered not to send the letters to the family."

Greg added, "And, if possible, the most current list of prisoners in Stalag 13." Emma frowned slightly; that wasn't in the script. However, she trusted her brother's intuition.

Squeezing her hand again, Bradshaw said, "That's not such an extraordinary request from a grief struck family. And since you came all the way from Indianapolis just to make it, I'll be happy to assist you."

He departed the room in a series of formalities to retrieve their desired documents. Emma then turned to Greg. "The POW list?" she asked doubtfully.

"Just a hunch. I want all the information we can get. And I thought that maybe it wasn't Rob that was special, but the whole camp."

Fifteen minutes later, Bradshaw returned. He handed the a think file on Robert Hogan to Danny and the POW list to Greg. Then, he took Emma's hand again.

"Now, Emma. Is it okay if I call you Emma?" Bradshaw asked, but plunged ahead without a reply. "Your brothers have everything to satisfy your worries. Let us talk about you."

Emma felt queasy as he continued to flatter her and lightly contact her hands, hair and arms. Behind her, she could tense Danny's fury. Thankfully, he kept it in check. _This is for you big brother, _she thought, as she found herself agreeing to a nice long dinner in a restaurant Bradshaw knew.

Finally, Danny cleared his throat. "I think I have everything I need, Mr. Bradshaw. The files were of much help."

Bradshaw looked annoyed, but had nothing to do but escort them to the door. "Until seven, Miss Hogan!" he called in farewell.

Back in the car, Danny let out all his fury on Emma, and she took it. It helped her keep her nerves and queasiness at bay. Besides, she was glad he was angry. It was just another sign of how much he loved her. Finally, his rage subsided and Emma could ask about the content of the files.

"I don't understand it," Greg said. "The orders came from the big brass at Allied High Command in London. A General Butler. I even saw the orders, which aren't for public display. They said specifically, 'Robert Hogan is officially deceased in POW camp disaster. Hold on family notification until further instructions.' It was dated in February."

* * *

Far away, Robert Hogan found a bit of relief from his despairing thoughts. He had finally found someone who could communicate in German. Finding someone who would admit to speaking English was next to impossible. The man was Romanian, and half out of his mind. Still, Rob enjoyed the company. They were an odd pair, this mad Romanian and he, quite fitting for a crazy war.

Repeatedly in his sleep, the Romanian would mutter, "I am not a traitor! I am not a traitor! Please, tell them, I am not a traitor!"

Each morning, Rob would tell him of this. The Romanian would shake his head, and mutter his line again. "Even in my sleep, the truth comes! Why does no one see?" he would shout. And then he would go back to muttering physics and Shakespeare and things in languages Rob did not understand. For awhile he would listen. Then he would think on what the Romanian claimed but would not explain.

One night, before they collapsed from exhaustion, Rob said, "My friend, it does not matter to me if you are a traitor or not. Sleep in peace tonight. Here, we are all traitors.


	4. Chapter 4

**April 17, 1945**

**The Diplomat's Hotel, Outskirts of Washington D.C.**

"All of that for one lousy dead end," Danny Greene sighed, leaning back in his hotel-furnished armchair. Across from him, Greg lay on the bed of the seedy motel, buried in the mound of paperwork Lt. Colonel Henry Bradshaw had provided them. Contrary to the fancy name of their temporary residence, the hotel was hardly fit for any weary traveler, let alone a diplomat.

At the comment of his brother-in-law, Greg looked up and frowned. "It's not a dead end yet," he argued. "We just aren't looking in the right places. Somewhere in here, there is an explanation."

"I hardly know what that would be. We've been through all the information a half dozen times!" Danny rubbed his hands to his face, stretching his eye sockets so he appeared to be a hybrid Martian – provided, of course, Martians looked anything like they were described over the radio, and if so, that they could cross reproduce or reproduce at all.

Greg scanned the columns of names, facts, and figures. Everything except the comment on his Rob's death seemed to be in order. He shook his head. "It just has to be here, Danny! It has too! We haven't come all the way to D.C., cut through miles of red tape, and lied to a Lt. Colonel just to give up. At least now we know something is fishy!"

Throwing up his hands, Danny gave in. "Alright, alright! Let's go through the numbers one more time. Anything to keep my mind on what's going on with Emma and that...that _man." _He shuddered and looked once more at the clock.

"Patience, Danny-boy," Greg said gently. "Emma's got a good head on her shoulders. She won't let Lt. Bradshaw do anything she doesn't expressly want him too." He paused, then added slyly. "You know that first hand, don't you?"

Blushing, Danny quickly picked up some of the papers scattered on Greg's bed. "So Stalag 13..."

Serious again, Greg also returned to the stack. "Opened in the beginning of 1941. Originally it mostly contained down fliers, all enlisted men and mostly British of origin. However, as the war progressed, it came to hold any manor of captured men, both airmen, infantry, and French Resistance."

"But Rob is the only officer." Danny looked up. "He never mentioned that to us in the letters."

Greg snorted. "He never mentioned anything of importance. But then again, neither did I."

"But don't you see? Greg, in all your military experience and all the experience of your family, have you _ever _heard of one single officer being put in a large enlisted mens' POW camp?"

There was a silence as both men considered the implications of this. Slowly, Greg shook his head. "No. This is just curiouser and curiouser. I just wonder why Rob... Would Rob do something to get himself singled out like that?"

The question didn't need to be answered. They both knew that if the occasion presented itself, Rob would indeed do _something. _

"And what about this no escapes business?" Danny pressed, reintroducing a line of query that had gone cold several times before. "I mean, there is over a thousand men in this camp at the time of last recording – which was in January – and certainly more by now. Surely _someone_, if not our ingenious relative would have escaped in over four years!"

Greg shook his head. "It's as I said before. We just don't know. I've never been in POW camp, and neither have you. Maybe no escapes is the norm, not the exception. How many escaped POWs do you know?"

Danny shook his head, so Greg continued. "Or maybe this Wilhelm Klink is just exceptionally good at his job. We don't _know _there is something amiss here."

"But with the mysterious death reports combined with the no escapes..." Danny sighed. "Maybe you are right. Maybe we are making something out of nothing."

They sat in desperate silence for a while, flipping through some papers. Greg tiredly munched on a My-T-Fine Dessert, imagining the pudding snack to be as tasty as the kind Regina Hogan made. Instantly, he felt guilty, as he often did when the rationed food ate at him. If Rob were alive, he surely would trade much of his Red Cross Package for a My-T-Fine Dessert pudding. If he still got Red Cross Packages. So many ifs. Suddenly, Greg lost his appetite, and put the sweet down. "Want some?" he asked Danny.

"Of that excuse for dessert? No thank you. Maybe we can run to the hot dog stand later." He sighed. "I bet Emma is eating a lot better than us tonight."

"Would you stop obsessing about Emma! Does she know that you are this possessive?" Greg asked, throwing up his hands in exasperation. The My-T-Fine Dessert slid off the bed unto the floor.

Silence again filled the room, but this time it was one of hurt. Greg had gone to far, and he knew it. For a long moment, he busied himself in picking up the dropped dessert and straightening some papers. Then, as it appeared, Danny wasn't going to say anything, he apologized. "I'm sorry, Danny. I went too far."

"Forget it," Danny mumbled.

"Why don't we go down to that hot dog stand? A nice frankfurter sounds nice." In reality, Greg's stomach was still feeling queasy, but he knew he needed to eat.

The pair strolled through the brisk Washington D.C. air, hugging their jackets close about them. Spring had been late this year, and the grass was just beginning to show hints of green. The overcast sky reminded Greg of Indianapolis, and he thought of home as it had been before the war, before Rob had gotten shot down, before he had served on the hospital ship, before Emma had gotten married. They had been so innocent, so confident that both the horrors and delights of the world would never change the structure of their picturesque family. How wrong they had been – how very wrong.

Greg wondered about the families of the other POWs - the parents and brothers and sisters and wives of Rob's friends and comrades in arms. Or comrades behind barbed wire, as the case was. How many of them were grieving, or wondering if their loved one was yet alive?

Suddenly, an idea stuck him and Greg stopped mid-stride, barely holding on to his hot dog. Walking a step ahead, Danny did a double take and turned around. "What's the deal?" he asked.

"I told you it wasn't a dead end. I just found another way!"

"You mean besides contact General Butler? Because you've suggested that before. Greg, I just don't think flying to London right now is practical, or -"

Frustrated, Greg shook his head. "No, not General Butler. I know that, it was just a desperation idea, okay? No, what I have is so much better. Listen. You know how we were talking earlier about Stalag 13 seeming to be an exception to the rules?"

Danny nodded. "Yes," he said slowly, "but I -"

"Just listen a second, okay? Now. I was thinking... What if Rob wasn't the only soldier to be mysteriously reported dead? What if the phenomenon is not with Rob but the camp?"

Suddenly, Danny understood. "Yes! And we have the list of all the POWs that the Bradshaw creep gave to us!"

This time, Greg was tactful enough to leave well enough alone.

* * *

**Diplomat's Hotel**

**Four Hours Later**

Greg was on the phone, speaking to yet another lonely mother. The calling had not gone as well as he had expected. He should have known better than calling a bunch of lonely families, wiling to share their heartache with anyone and anybody. Yet he hadn't the heart to interrupt a single story, for he too felt their pain in his soul. None of them knew anything was out of the ordinary, and Greg was unwilling to shatter than innocence. All of his compassion, though, had kept his information score firmly at zero.

At the desk, Emma sat in Danny's lap. She had several phone books in front of her and was combing through the list of POWs to find matches. The work was slow going, and Greg had called several wrong numbers. His sister was yawning, and Greg knew she had had a hard evening. They all had and it was time they were in bed. It was progressing to the point of rudeness to make anymore phone calls anyway. Danny was already nodding off, the relief of having Emma safe in his arms had done him in.

Finally, the lonely mother made her farewells to Greg and wished him luck. He placed down the receiver with a sigh. "I don't know how many more of these I can listen to, Em," he said tiredly. "How are we doing on the list?"

She looked down at the much annotated paper in front of her. "Well, I started with the higher ranks – the sergeants. I've eliminated the clearly British and French ones and you've called -" here Emma paused to count, " - fourteen American sergeants. Nine more to go, of the numbers I can find."

"We could be here forever!" Greg moaned.

"Yes, we could," Emma replied grimly. "But I didn't spend half my evening with the little shit like Bradshaw just to give up. We have something here, Greg, I can tell!"

Greg said, " Yes, we do. We have girlfriends and mother and fathers and brothers and sisters just like us, dying to find out is happening to their loved one across the ocean. We have stories of loneliness. What we don't have is information."

"We've only tried eighteen. There must be 200 American POWs at Stalag 13 all things considered. We have barely enough information to make any sort of conclusion." She sighed, looking at the defeated look on his face. "I know. Just one more phone call tonight and we'll try again in the morning."

Knowing that he was already losing this battle, Greg acquiesced. "Alright. Let me have the number."

His sister smiled at him, and scratched a name off her long list. "This is the number of James Ivan Kinchloe, a bomber hailing from Detroit, Michigan."

"Lovely." Greg dialed then number and braced himself for another long story.

"Kinchloe residence, Mary Katherine speaking. May I help you?" said the voice of an elderly lady.

Greg cleared his throat. "Yes, Mary Katherine, my name is Greg Hogan and I was wondering if this happened to be the residence of Mr. James Ivan Kinchloe?"

Mary Katherine said, "I'm sorry, Mr. Hogan..." She trailed off, and Greg made a face at his sister. _Another _wrong number. Next time, she would be doing the calling.

"No problem, Mary Katherine, I'm sorry to bother you."

He was about to hang up the phone when Mary Katherine asked, "Mr. Hogan you said your name was?"

"Yes indeed, ma'am." Greg said, his heart rate increasing.

"Any relation to Robert Hogan?"

His palms grew sweaty on the receiver. "He's my brother."

"Then perhaps I can help you. I apologize for my secretiveness, but these days... Ivan Kinchloe is my son, but he doesn't live at home anymore."

"I know that, ma'am," Greg said politely. "In fact, it's the reason I'm calling."

"Then perhaps you'd like his number in Virginia?"

"What?" Greg fought to keep the receiver in his hand. Across the room, Emma gave him an odd look.

Mary Katherine continued. "Then you didn't know, did you? I guess it's alright to tell you... after all... Ivan returned home from the war nearly two months ago and is working with the Department of War. He has a phone there – perhaps he would be better suited to answer your questions."

Greg concluded his conversation with Mary Katherine and hung up the phone. Exhausted, he collapsed on the shaky bed. Finally, finally, they had a real lead.

* * *

There was activity in the main buildings. Something larger than ordinary business was occupying the minds of his captors. Looking around at those he watched him, he slowed down his pace with his shovel and nudged the Romanian toiling beside him. It was not to be. The Romanian was in his other world of Calculus and theories of natural science. Pretending to reposition his hands, Rob looked closely at the scene unfolding in the distance. Many dirty automobiles crowded the drive and there was the sound of angry voices.

Suddenly, an angry voice yelled nearby and a boot came in contact with his shoulder. Rob didn't need to speak the language to understand what that meant. He quickly began digging his trench again, frustrated at the futility of his labor.

When he dared look up again, Rob was astonished to see a familiar man man, burdened by chains around his wrists and ankles, joining the mob of prisoners. As the sun hit just right, Rob could see a glint coming off one distinguished monocle.

The tide had changed once again.

* * *

Note: My apologies for the delay. This might continue to happen from time to time, but I promise again this will be finished in a relatively timely manner. Again, I apologize for a few proofreading errors.


	5. Chapter 5

**April 18, 1945**

**Outskirts of Washington D.C.**

Emma sat at the wheel of her 1940 Ford Tudor Sedan into the drive of a crumbling brick farmhouse. The path was long and rutted, built more for horse and carriage traffic than for automobiles. It was strange to be only an hour from the frantic business of Washington and be in a place of such rural tranquility. The place was indeed timeless; if not for a few modern inventions visible from the drive, the house could easily been from a hundred years ago or more.

Next to her on the seat, Danny was putting away the roadmap. Ever since Emma's dinner date, he had been wary about the entire process, his original doubts about their ability to discover the truth about Rob resurfacing. Greg drummed his fingers on the backseat armrest and Emma smiled back at him. They had an old running joke about his finger drumming and her lip chewing habits but the time was not at hand for the jokes.

The three car doors crashed simultaneously, and the Hogan/Greene clan walked up the uneven drive to the house. Before they reached the front porch, the door swung open emitting a tall black man. He appeared to be in his early thirties – but then again, Emma was never much good at guessing ages. The clothes he wore were new and neatly groomed; indeed, his entire appearance was well manicured. The glaring exception to the man's tidy physique was the rough wooden crutch he leaned heavily on. The right leg of his trousers was pinned shut halfway above the knee. Somehow, the man's leg had been crudely amputated.

"James Ivan Kinchloe," the man said, nodding his head to them, "but just call me Kinch. You must be the Colonel's relatives."

Greg stepped forward and took Kinch's proffered left hand – the right was grasped firmly around the crutch. "Greg Hogan. It's a pleasure, Mr. Kinch."

"Kinch," the man said firmly. "Just Kinch."

"Okay then," Greg said. "Kinch. May I present my sister, Emma, and her husband, Danny Greene."

Emma reached forward and took his hand, feeling somehow uncomfortable. When their eyes met, it felt as though this strange black man was looking into of her being. She squeezed his hand and pulled away. "It was very nice for you to let us speak with you. When have been searching for answers for quite some time."

Smiling, Kinch continued to stare. "You have his spirit, Emma Greene. Your brother might share his face, but you share in his soul. And anyone with a soul like the Colonel's is someone I can trust."

Emma smiled awkwardly, unsure of how to act. She had never met a man quite like Kinch before.

There was a long tense silence while the three of them stared uncomfortably at one another. Then Kinch said, "Well, come in and I'll tell you what I know. Maybe you can make more sense of it than I."

* * *

**Feburary 13, 1945**

**Stalag 13**

Kinch lay dozing in his chair in the radio room. The weak blub flickered above him; although the blub was a fairly new – Newkirk had scrounged it from the supply hut only a week after it had been installed – the electric currents were makeshift and conducted electricity poorly. It was yet another job on the extensive to-do list. Even with the amount of work to be done, the camp had been unbearably dull in the last few weeks. Most of the crew didn't take much pleasure in the mundane tasks of prision life. Most of them were approaching two or three years in prison and it was more than most could bear – especially those who's only role in the operation consisted of not stirring up trouble.

To Hogan's credit, he did his best to keep morale high. The more educated among the prisoners held classes in their area of expertise. Political discussion forums were held almost daily, but most of their information was outdated. Inevitably, the disccusions turned into sessions abusing the Nazis. Kinch took no interest in these pursuits, instead choosing to bide his time watching the radio. He wasn't sure if we wanted another task or not – a mission would break the monotomy, but a mission also meant increased exposure to very real dangers.

"Kinch, wake up."

Jumping to his feet, Kinch nearly knocked heads with Hogan. He didn't bother to apologize for sleeping on the job; the discussion had been had before and there was no need to repeat it. It was just another trait Kinch admired in his comanding officer.

"I need to send a message to London. Ready?"

* * *

**Kinch's House**

"Wait a second," Greg inturrupted. "Send a message to London? Are you kidding?"

Kinch's face was solemn. "This is going to be hard to believe Mr. Greg. And there's no time for all the details right now, but I must tell you some of it if you are to understand what happened to the Colonel. I probably shouldn't even be telling y ou, but you are his family and the family of Robert Hogan, I trust."

A grave silence filled the room. Emma's stomach felt queesy. What in the Lord's name had her brother sunk himself into this time? She felt rage along with her anticipation. Robert had always seen the war as a bit of a game. Sure, he knew people died, and he surely had experienced brutle treatment as a POW, but it would never change his outlook or dimish his partriotism. Pride was always his failing and in war, pride could be fatal.

"After your brother arrived at Stalag 13 and discovered that the Kommandant was less than an intellect and most of the guards even more so, he decided that fate had given him a window of opportunity. At first, he organized us to dig a tunnel for a massive escape."

Danny snorted. "Sounds like something he would do."

"We finished the tunnel and the Colonel slipped out before the rest of us were scheduled to get a good mental map of the area. He wanted us as far away as possible before dawn on the escape night. However, when we came back, he had with him another downed flyer. Told us that since we were already POWs we would be hunted if we escaped, so we should wait and try to send this man home before anyone knew he existed. The Colonel gave him some of our blanket made civilian clothes, our maps, our forged papers, everything."

"Did he make it?" Emma asked.

"I don't know. What I do know is that we set the escape back a week. However, fate intervened again and sent a pair of downed fliars our way. Only this time, when we tried to help them back, we were caught."

The three listeners drew back as one. Greg bit his lip. "And?"

"And we were lucky. The man who changed the dogs caught us sneaking out of the tunnel. We thought we were done for. However, it turns out that the dog handler, Schnitzer was a member of the local underground. He saw what we were doing and thought it was a wonderful idea. He and the Colonel spoke for a long time, and the Colonel liked the idea. Wanted to set up a traveler's aid soceity right under this nose."

"No," Emma said. "He's out of his mind."

"That's what we thought, until we thought about how much sense it made. Nobody would suspect POWs of working with the Underground. I mean, POW life sucks, but it is relatively safe. And from that point of safety, we could continue to fight. The best of both worlds. And as soon as Schnitzer got us a radio, London agreed."

Kinch paused for a few minutes to get tea for the group and let the information sink in. None of the Hogan clan said anything. This explained so much, but it was still so shocking.

When Kinch returned, Greg asked, "is that all? Do you have any more huge relevations while we are still shocked?"

"Well, you don't need to know all the specifics of the organization just yet – all the missins and who we met doing it. That will come when there is more time. However, you should know that eventually, we evolved into a sabotage and intelligence unit as well – blowing up bridges, finding out what the General's were thinking, that sort of think."

Perhaps it was the blasé manner in which Kinch discussed such grave matters. Or perhaps because each of them had secretly suspected something like this all along. Either way, the information was enough to understand now. It would take much thought later, and Emma knew she had a nice yelling match with Rob in the future. That is, if they found him.

"Okay," she said. "Rob wanted to send a telegraph. Then what?"

* * *

**Stalag 13**

Within a second, Kinch sat attentively at the homemade transmitter. "Vocal or code?"

"Code is fine. Direct this to Sleeping Beauty. You know the frequency"

Kinch tuned the radio. "Ready, Colonel," he said.

"Received message via Cerebus. Acknowledge request for rendevous. Small pantheon outside Hades tonight. Maintain same recognition code."

The wires hummed for a little bit and Kinch dotted and dashed the message. "Alright Colonel, all sent. Are we finally going to get some action?"

Hogan yawned and sat down next to the radio man. He removed his cap and bent it between his hands. "I'm not sure. It's probably nothing. Schnitzer told me this morning he had been contacted by a start up underground organization. They want some of our intelligence on our local friendly Gestapo, the nosy townspeople, the targets – all the good stuff."

"And you are going to meet with them in the abandoned house tonight? It could be a trap."

"Kinch, when you run this operation, everything is a trap. And for all I know, you are Hades himself waiting to ensare me into this realm. No, I think I have this one covered. Run it by London if it makes you feel better. I, for one, am going to take a nap if I want to be alert tonight. I spent all morning hoeing this year's crop of carrots."

"Any prospects? I could use some carrots right now. Better night vision you know."

Hogan smiled. "I wouldn't count on better night vision this year then. Keep practicing with what you have." With that, Hogan stood up and climbed the ladder into the prision camp above.

* * *

**Kinch's House**

"I could have stopped it right then," Kinch said, staring at his hands.

Danny frowned. "Stopped what?"

"Everything. This. You, here, asking for answers. Me, not knowing anything. All of it!" He stood up in agitation and paced about the room once. The three visitors watchaed him, a growing knot of fear churning in their stomachs.

"More tea, Miss Emma? Mr. Greg? Mr. Danny?"

They each waved him away. The room was incredibly stiff for awhile. Then, under this breath, Kinch muttered, "if it only weren't for that rabbit trap." Then, he looked at his guests. "Don't judge me too harshly."

* * *

**Stalag 13  
**

Andrew Carter skittered into the radio room a scant thirty seconds after Hogan had vacated it. Kinch remianed at his table, studying the code book for the latest way to properly contact London.

"Kinch? Do you have any loose springs or hinges or anything metal?" Carter asked excitedly. "Anything that's really sharp will work. I'm not picky, and I'm sure that Fluffy won't be either."

"Andrew, who's...Fluffy?"

Carter looked unfazed. "The rabbit I'm going to catch in my new rabbit trap. I just need something sharp in which to place the bate in a tempting manner." He sniffed, pretending to be the rabbit who had caught sight of a delicious looking carrot.

"Uh, Carter...I hate to ask, but what are you going to use as bait? The Colonel just told me our carrots were failing miserably."

"Huh?" Carter asked, breaking his rabbit impersonations. "Oh, bait. Well, carrot tops smell like carrots don't they? I was just thinking that if I were a rabbit, I would probably smell a lot more than I see. No offence to rabbitkind or anything, but their eyes aren't the greatest. My cousin Jimmy told me that one time when we were hunting in Minnesota and I was worried my bright orange sweater would tip off the rabbit. So anyway, I thought I'd make a nice orange carrot-looking wood carving in the trap and put carrot tops all over it."

Kinch blinked.

"So, do you have any spare parts?" Carter asked again.

Unwilling to disappoint the young seargeant, Kinch began digging in the radio room's drawers. "How about this half of broken pliars? The handle end is pretty pointy."

Carter considered. "I think that's just the thing. Do you want to help me put it on? It's almost in completition phase, but I might need your great ideas to help me fine tune it a little bit."

The enthuesasim of Carter caught Kinch. He had never been able to resist the young man. "Show me where," he said. Together, they went hunting for spare parts and bait for the rest of the afternoon, the message to London waiting on the desk in the radio room.

* * *

**Kinch's House**

Looking around at his listerners, Kinch said, "You can blame me, it's okay. I blame myself all the time."

"I dont understand..." Emma said, chewing on her lip. "What was bad about not sending the message right away?"

Kinch looked at her. "It just gets worse. I'm sorry."


	6. Chapter 6

**February 14, 1945**

**Stalag 13**

Kinch heard the familiar notes of Glenn Miller's "In the Mood" streaming from the tunnel as he descended the steps to the radio room for his shift. Colonel Hogan must be in a good mood, which was surprising considering the dismal morale of the camp. Reaching the bottom of the ladder, he peered into the darkness and spotted his Colonel straightening the tie of his civilian dress.

"Going out tonight sir?" Kinch asked. "Perhaps with a lovely local frauline known to some as Tiger?"

Hogan's melody faded off and he turned to grin at his sergeant. "What gave me away? The aftershave? Is it too much?" He sniffed the air suspiciously.

"The singing. You always are always humming jazz when you are about to do something you enjoy," Kinch replied. "But on second thought, the aftershave goes a little bit beyond aromatic."

"It's this damnable war. Can't get anything just as you'd like it these days, no matter how much money you print in your basement." Hogan finished primping and checked his watch. "Almost time to leave," he said. "Did anything come back from London?"

Kinch frowned. "London?" he asked. Then he remembered – the seedling underground group requesting Hogan's help. Damn Carter and his rabbit trap! "No, sir. Nothing at all."

"Good," said Hogan. "No news is good news my father always said. I've already explained my absence for evening role call to Klink, so we should be all set."

"What did you tell him this time?" Kinch asked. "LeBeau sick with the flu again?"

Putting on his coat, Hogan laughed. "I told him I was praying for my soul."

"Praying? If Klink bought that he's more of a fool than I thought – and I already think he's a pretty big fool. You've never pretended to be devout before."

Hogan's eyes took a devious cast to them. "Which is precisely why it worked," he said. "I explained to Klink all about the American tradition of Valentine's Day, and how, seeing that there is a lack of those of the female persuasion in the area, I must spend my day praying for my inability to fornicate."

"And that worked?" Kinch said, aghast.

"I'm pretty sure that Klink was turned on about half way through my detailed description and would have accepted any explanation just to get some alone time," Hogan said devilishly.

Kinch let out a nervous laugh. Sometimes even he was surprised by the extremes Hogan's ingenuity allowed him to pull off. Hogan winked at him, and then hurried off down the tunnel towards Tiger and the Underground.

The returned thought of the Underground took the laugh off of Kinch's lips. How could he have forgotten to wire London? With an operation like that in Stalag 13, any bit of carelessness could destroy everything and place everyone in front of a firing squad.

Quickly, Kinch took up the pad and messaged London, requesting information on this new underground organization in Hammelberg.

* * *

**Kinch's Home**

**April 18, 1945**

"Tiger?" Greg Hogan asked Kinch with a grin. "You are telling me that even in a POW camp, Rob managed to find a girl?"

"Newkirk couldn't understand it either," Kinch said. "Of course, he found a local woman now and again himself, but nobody like Tiger. That took the Colonel's touch."

Greg sighed. "I was always doomed to be overshadowed by Rob in the area of women. One look at that jaunty hat and toothy grin and nobody else had a chance."

Emma cleared her throat pointedly. "So did the underground unit turn out to be a trap?" She still couldn't believe that she was even having this conversation. Why couldn't Rob be content to wait out the war with the rest of them?

Kinch swirled his teacup. "That's just the thing that makes this mess so damnably complicated," he said grimly. "London got back to me later that evening. General Butler himself approved the underground operation."

"General Butler!" exclaimed Danny. "I know that name!"

"He's the one that ordered Hogan dead in his file," said Greg.

"And the one that ordered us not to be told," Emma added.

Danny asked, "So…this General Butler is a double agent?"

"No, I don't think so," Kinch replied. "Butler has been straight with us for years. If he was a turncoat, he'd have sold us out years ago. I just think there's a bigger game he was playing. A bigger picture that we weren't seeing, and Butler was playing us to his best advantage."

"That's not troubling at all," Emma said dryly. "Do we have any idea of what this game is?"

"Maybe," said Kinch. "But I'll get to that. This all fell out later. At first, everything was okay. Hogan came back, no problems, and called a staff meeting the very next day."

* * *

**Stalag 13**

**February 15, 1945**

"Colonel, I think you missed a little lipstick on your cheek," Newkirk jested as he strode into Hogan's office. "Was Tiger wearing dark red for Valentine's Day?"

"Oui," added LeBeau from his seat on Hogan's lower bunk. "And I'll bet those aren't the only marks that she left the Colonel as they celebrated."

Hogan flushed a little bit. "LeBeau, you will do well to keep those thoughts to yourself, or I'll have you cooking for Schultz again."

"Just a few details," said Newkirk. "It's been months since I've even seen a decent-looking bird. I mean, at this point I'd settle for woman the age of my grandmother!"

From the bench, Carter added, "Boy, I wish we all were with the Colonel last night, spending time with Tiger. I bet they even went as far as drinking wine!"

"I do have some details about last night," said Hogan pointedly. "I happened to meet with the leaders of a new underground group. They are planning on taking some major action and are requesting our support."

Kinch smiled. "We could all use a little action around here. I'm sick of betting on cockroach races."

"What do they have in mind, mon Colonel?"asked LeBeau, sitting up straighter. "The usual bridges and supply lines?"

Hogan took off his cap and tossed it on the table. "No." He walked over to the window and pushed it open, allowing for all of them to have a clear view of barbed wire beyond. "Kinch," he asked. "How long have you been in Stalag 13?"

Puzzled, Kinch answered, "Since November 1941. Three years, three months, and eight days."

"What about you, Carter?"

The American was confused. "'I came here after you did, sir. You know that. September 1942."

"Yes, I know that," said Hogan. "But I wanted you to remember."

Newkirk snorted. "Like we'd forget something like that. Doesn't matter how many missions we run. I've still been here for pushing four years now."

"And you have served me well. Very well." Hogan closed the window so his words would not carry across the compound to undesired ears.

"We've all spent a good piece of our lives here, the part of our lives that is supposed to be the best part – or so the songs say. We were told by London and Washington to harass the enemy as much as possible, to assist escaping prisoners, and to pass on any information we might get our hands upon.

"But to what end? We're trying to win the war, of course, so we can all go home to our families and forget what has happened here. The underground leaders I met with today have suggested to me that we change our focus to our most immediate liberators: the Soviets to the east. Even Klink admits that they are close – how close, I'm not sure. The group was suggesting that we meet the Soviets and effectively open Hammelburg – all its factories, SS headquarters, and operations – from the inside."

The room fell silent as everyone considered what Hogan had to say. It was no secret that the Allies were closing in on Germany, Kinch knew, but somehow, he'd never been able to picture the end of it. He could picture his reunion with his family, even saying goodbye to Carter at a train station in Chicago somewhere, but when his dreams shifted to gates opening and Kinch walking free, the visions always faded.

"The Commies?" Newkirk said, breaking the group's pensiveness. "I know we're all fighting the Krauts, but those Soviets…I've heard stories…"

"The enemy of my enemy is my friend," said LeBeau. "Who cares? I just want to get out of this rat's nest – see my beloved Paris again."

"Colonel," Kinch asked, "what happens if the Soviets open our camp? Do we get shipped to London or Moscow or what?"

Carter added, "What about our work here? I mean, if we close up shop, we can't fight the Nazis anymore."

"That's the idea of war, mate," Newkirk chided. "If we're good at it, we lose our job."

Hogan listened thoughtfully, then spoke. "Kinch, I don't know what happens. We have our orders from London to hurt the Germans as hard and as often as we can. I think going to the Soviets is the hardest we can hit them right now. But whether that is the right thing…?"

"What does London think?" asked Carter. "I mean, if they think it's a good idea, I think it's a good idea. They are the people in charge after all."

Kinch's heart sank a little. "No can do. When the sent the last message, they told me codes are changing again. We should expect the new book with the next changing of the dogs – which should be four days from now."

Snapping his fingers, Hogan began to pace the length of the room. "The underground wanted an answer tomorrow. They have a plan to infiltrate the Gestapo headquarters, but it involves some big Kraut meeting hosted their next week. I don't know if there's time to wait for London."

"So we fly this one solo," commented Newkirk.

"I'm in," said LeBeau. "Anything to get me out of here faster – even if it involves a detour through Moscow. Besides, I might run into Marya again…"

Carter padded LeBeau on the back. "I'm with you. Like you said, we are allies. Marya helped us out."

"And almost sold us out to the Krauts a dozen times," added Newkirk warily. "Colonel, I don't like this plan. I'd rather sit it out and wait for the RAF or the American lines, but if they are in, I'm in too."

"Thanks Newkirk," said Hogan, looking relieved. "Kinch?"

A knot formed in Kinch's stomach, a knot of indecision. "This feels like a big decision to make so quickly for an organization we don't even know. I'm not opposed to supporting the Soviets, I just wish it didn't have to be now."

"I agree with you," said Hogan. "If we had time to check with London and call all the shots ourselves, I would. But I think this is too good an opportunity to pass up."

* * *

**Kinch's House**

**April 18, 1945**

"So you helped the Soviets?" asked Emma.

Kinch had paused in his telling to restrain his cat from destroying a stack of papers on the kitchen counter. The orange tabby glowered at his rebuke and stalked off into the adjoining room.

"We decided to help them, yes," admitted the man. He looked tired from the retelling, defeat creeping into his eyes. "One of those decisions where you can't go back after you make it. After years of hiding behind our POW status, we were our cards in what we thought was this final battle for control of the area."

Emma curled back deeper into her armchair, trying to picture Rob leading a band of gurellia fighters as they struggled to open up a town for an invading Soviet army. The image failed her; instead, she saw him taunting her as they played a game of tag, and conspiring with Greg to break curfew on Saturday night. When had this brother turned into a war hero?

* * *

Rob lay on his rough bed thinking of his family. They were the one thing he had left to cling to – his makeshift family from Stalag 13 scattered or dead, and his current companions far from reaching even the status of friends. The one familiar face he had thought had been Colonel Klink across the compound (how bleak his situation was, considering Klink a friend!) had vanished from his investigation. Perhaps he had imagined it.

Instead, as the Romanian mumbled on about traitors and betrayals, Rob saw his parents making a cake for his birthday, telling him to eat it and grow strong. Strong enough to kill Nazis, he thought glumly. I did that – see where I am? He tried to see Emma at her wedding, a wedding he had missed. Although he had met her husband (husband?) Danny a few times before the war, Rob had never truly known him. Now this stranger was married to the family. He saw Greg, his strong hands guiding a patient back to health, massaging his mother's tension away…

These thoughts were futile and unhealthy. It was best for him to focus in the moment and survive.

The creak of a floorboard made him jerk to full alertness. Movement headed his way, and Hogan felt piercing eyes on him. He pretended to be asleep. Let him not see me, Hogan prayed – although to whom, he was not sure.

"Papa Bear," a voice whispered, low in his ear. Hogan jerked around, but the stranger grasped his shoulder, keeping him turned away.

"Don't look at me," it commanded. "I am giving you a letter. Read this as soon as you can. Destroy it first chance. If you do what it says, there will be a way out of here."

Hogan dared not even to breathe as hope swelled in his chest. He had not been forgotten, he hadn't! He felt a rough piece of paper slide across his stomach and heard the creak of footsteps as the stranger vanished.

"Thank you," Hogan whispered, although to whom, he was not certain.


	7. Chapter 7

**Stalag 13 **

**February 17, 1945**

The chain rattled indicating the opening of the tree stump tunnel. Kinch looked up from his reading, concerned. They were not expecting any visitors this night. It was his job to the man the radio, but the new codes from London weren't due to come into until the next day and Kinch's shift had been quiet. With a sigh, he set down the worn German dictionary he was thumbing through and walked down the tunnel.

As he turned the corner to the last section of the tunnel, Kinch's eyes were suddenly blinded by a flashlight. Blinking, he looked down, his eyes focusing on a pair of stylish women's shoes. "Tiger?"

The woman lowered the light, and Kinch saw that it was indeed the underground worker from Hammelberg. "Kinch?" she asked, her voice tight with stress.

"Local radio man and tunnel escort at your service," he said lightly, trying not to think about what would have caused Tiger to risk the journey to Stalag 13 so late at night. "What can we do for you?"

Tiger did not return his smile. "Gather the others, if you would. I'm afraid that things are….that we might… I am just afraid," she finished.

"I don't think there's a day that I'm not afraid, Tiger," Kinch said reassuringly. "Every time a staff car pulls up, every time Klink summons the Colonel to the office, hell, every time Schultz comes in unannounced it could spell the end of everything."

They walked down the dim tunnel, Kinch leading Tiger by the hand. Her palms were moist with sweat. He found himself wishing for a moment he could take her into his arms and together they could forget the war for a moment. But he couldn't; Tiger was the Colonel's girl. Instead, he pulled her a chair in the radio room and scampered up the ladder to gather the others.

He found Newkirk playing at cards with Olsen and Foster in the common room. From the looks of it, Newkirk was winning or cheating or both. Probably both. A few others of their outside men lay about lounging on bunks, but the there was no sign of Carter or LeBeau.

"…I'll bet five on the little lady of clubs, two to one odds," Newkirk was saying. "Three to one and you can call the suit."

Olsen looked frustrated. "I wouldn't take that bet for five to one odds. I saw you stack the deck."

"Me? Stack the deck? I'll give you my word as an Englishman that these cards are as honest as your FDR himself. What about six to one? You'd be robbing me blind, but hey, what are friends for?"

Kinch cleared his throat. "I hate to interrupt this high stakes game gentlemen, but I need you down in the radio room. We have a visitor."

Newkirk couldn't help but give a saddened look at his hand. "It better be important, Kinch, or you owe me five dollars."

"Five dollars!" exclaimed Foster, reaching over to pick up Newkirk's cards. "I knew you were cheating three hands ago!"

Slapping Foster's hands away, Newkirk quickly shuffled the deck. "Now that's not what I said, now was it? I just was –"

Frustrated, Kinch placed a firm hand on the Englishman's shoulder. "Have you seen Carter and LeBeau?"

Newkirk smiled. "Out in the yard, trying out Carter's rabbit trap. Bloody fool. It would serve him right if the spotlight catches them."

The rabbit trap. Again. Sometimes Kinch really disliked Carter and all his inane inventions. "Listen, Newkirk, do you mind go getting them. Tiger's in the tunnel and –"

"Tiger?" Newkirk interrupted. "In the tunnel? You said the magic word, my friend." He slipped on his hat, paused and grabbed the cards of the table, and then hurried out into the darkness.

It was only five minutes later when the ladder lowered and Newkirk, Carter, and LeBeau joined the waiting Tiger, Kinch, Foster and Olsen. Carter was red-faced and panting, but Kinch didn't bother to ask the reason. Sometimes it was better not to know.

As she waited, Tiger had changed out of her coat, revealing a very flattering brown dress. Kinch caught his breath at the sight of her, forcing his mind to slip elsewhere for a few minutes. It had truly been too long.

"Is this everyone?" she asked to nobody in particular, doing a quick head count. "Good. I have some new intelligence about this Soviet operation. Hogan's been out of camp with these…sympathizers for over a day now, yes?"

* * *

**Kinch's House**

**April 18, 1945**

"Hang on a second," said Danny. "Are you telling me that you had this Klink duped so deeply that Rob could miss several days of roll calls?"

From his vantage point on the window seat, Greg Hogan could tell that his brother-in-law had been pushed past the point of incredulous. Greg could hardly blame him; some of the things Kinch had been explaining over the past hour would have seemed inconceivable just yesterday. Yet Greg had been a participant in his older brother's schemes since his earliest memory, and if anyone could pull off the kind of operation Kinch was describing, it was Rob. Danny only knew Rob from the stories.

Their host looked a little uncomfortable. "I know it all sounds crazy. I don't blame you if you don't believe me. I mean, I wouldn't believe me. This will probably be classified someday, but hell, the war is still going on."

Greg put a tentative hand on Kinch's shoulder. "I don't doubt you. It's just a lot to take at once. Even for someone who grew up with Rob."

For his part, Danny looked a little abashed. "Especially hard for someone who has barely met the man," he added quickly.

Kinch smiled at that. "I can tell you that your family life will never be dull. That is, if the Colonel…" He trailed off, his smile fading with his words."

"So Rob had been gone from the camp?" Emma prompted. For her part, she appeared to be taking the revelations stoically. She was their mother reborn, all strength and dignity, Greg observed. He wished he could channel some of that inner strength at a time like this.

"Oh yes," Kinch said, returning to his narrative. "So we had Carter dress up like an aide to Hostettler – the local friendly Gestapo major – to take Hogan in for some interrogation concerning a recent bridge demotion. Of course, Klink got his feathers all riled about being present, but he's too much of a coward to really on insist on much more than monthly delousing."

Greg had a fleeting image of a stork with ruffled feathers wearing a German uniform directed a line of ducks through a delousing shed. The lead duck was wearing an Air Corps' cap and his brother's face…

"And what about Tiger?" Emma was asking. "Did she find out that this underground group was suspicious?"

"No. Not that. The underground group checked out by all her sources. It was the Soviets she was concerned about."

* * *

**Stalag 13**

**February 17, 1945**

Kinch's mind whirled with the information Tiger had given them. Why had he allowed himself to be drawn into this mess in the first place? He should have insisted on London verification of the mission. Even if they would have approved it, it would have been long enough to stop this madness. They were betting the farm on this venture with the east, and while the German's looked to be likely to fold, the cards of the Soviets were far from clear.

"Do you think the Gov'ners in danger?" asked Newkirk as he slid a pistol into the pocket of his civilian clothing. The Englishman calm, but Kinch knew it was all a façade. He'd worked side by side with Newkirk for too long to be fooled.

For a moment, Kinch didn't reply as he struggled with his left boot. Somehow his sock and gotten balled up inside the toe. "Not now," he grunted, forcing his foot through the heel. "There!" The sock wad slid clear and his foot slipped in cleanly.

"Where?"

"I mean, the Colonel is safe right now. Tiger said the men at Stalag 19 didn't disappear until after the Soviet line had passed. And honestly, who wouldn't burn their prison camp if it is anything like our piece of heaven? Give me the torch and I'll do it myself." A rumor from a story from an exaggeration, thought Kinch. Who knew what had truly happened?

Newkirk did not look appeased. "Whatever truly happened, it's not something I want to be involved with. It smacks of dirty politics on a level I don't want to even thing about. We should just wait until London gives us the go-ahead and evacuate then." He straightened his cap and jacket and looked expectantly at Kinch. "Ready?"

Picking up his own weapons, Kinch nodded. They were headed out that night to stop Hogan from rendezvousing with the Soviets for fear of the consequences of a Soviet invasion. They'd already trained the bald eagle to squawk to their liking – there was no sense in also training a winter bear to dance as well if they didn't need to.

Olsen and LeBeau were waiting at the ladder up the tree stump. "Don't worry about the role calls – Foster and I have it all figured out," said LeBeau.

"I have the maps from Tiger," said Olsen, patting his breast pocket. "It looks that if we are able to grab a car in Hammelberg, we should make the Soviet rendezvous point by sunrise."

"Let's just hope that Colonel Hogan isn't too far into their clutches yet," Kinch said grimly. Then he led the way up the ladder and out into the world.

* * *

Rob's group leader was surprised when he volunteered to go on the wood cutting work force. He had never been the type to volunteer for extra labor before, even if it meant extra bread. Hopefully, he was not casting suspicion. Surely, no one had enough time to track everyone all the time.

About twenty men, none that Rob knew personally, had been splitting logs for over an hour. Rob's muscles were beginning to ache in the back of his shoulders from the heavy axe. He refused to falter, matching the man next to him swing for swing. Nothing about the scene indicated the reason why the mysterious note had told him to come here. Perhaps it was a trick, or a trap, or someone just pulling a cruel joke on an American. It could be all or none.

A car down the road and stopped beyond the bend. Rob could not see the interaction, but heard shouting voices in a language he did not understand. Distracted, he missed a beat and mentally cursed himself. His body should always be working in rhythm, not depending on his mind to keep pace.

"You!" The shout came in German, and Rob looked up to see a burly sergeant pointing at him. "Come."

Heart beating in anticipation, Rob set down his axe and followed the guard. Perhaps the letter hadn't been legitimate after all. They walked around the men chopping wood to a gravely service road. Fifty yards away, a dusty dark staff car sat, its motor running. Throwing Rob a look of contempt, the guard opened the rear door of the car and jerked his head towards the seat. Sink or swim, thought Rob, as he slid inside.

"Colonel Hogan!" came the exclamation of the waiting man. "So good to see you again!"

Rob did a double-take. Sitting in the car, looking different outside of uniform and noticeably balder, was none other than Kommadant Klink, So his mind hadn't been playing imaginations the other day, but still…this….this was so unexpected.

"You – _you _sent the note? You are…what?" Breathe, Rob reminded himself. Compose yourself. There's an explanation for this.

Klink looked positively cheerful for a moment. "Surprised you, did I? Got the old one-up on you? You're not the only one who can make surprises."

The shock Rob experienced quickly turned to annoyance. "Sure. You surprised me. You came all the way out here to do that?"

The smile on Klink's face, too, faded. "No. Not at all. Forgive me my little jest, for I'm afraid this visit is rather far from social, Hogan. I find myself in a rather sticky situation."

"In case you hadn't noticed, Klink, you aren't the only member of that club," Rob replied irritably. "I'm not real sure how I could help you, _if _I even wanted to."

Nervously, Klink drummed his fingers on his lap and an expression of desperation crossed his features – an expression to which Rob knew well. He ought to as he was often the cause of such a look. "Oh but you will want to," the Kommandant insisted. "We always made such a good team back at Stalag 13. I help you, you help me, we all win. Please, Hogan."

For an instant, Rob wasn't sure if he should laugh or cry. The fates were cruel to time and again his success depended on this man, this very German man. Yet it would seem that he had no other options. "It's a testament to my desperation that I'm going to hear you out," he said. "This had better be a good scheme."

Klink visibly relaxed. He would never make a good spy with transparency like that. "I've been trying to convince the Soviets that I've defeated to their side," he said dramatically.

Rob almost laughed. "I would pay money to see that. Do they believe you?"

"I've learned a lesson or two from watching you, you know," Klink said defensively. "All those years of convincing the Gestapo and Buckhalter that you were cowed, that I was loyal, that nothing extraordinary every happened at Stalag 13."

"Nothing extraordinary ever did, Kommadant. I'm insulted you think so," Rob said automatically.

"Still playing this game? I may not be the highest flyer in the Luftwaffe, Hogan, but I'm not the lowest either. But that's all water under the bridge now. The point is that I've about convinced them that I can be trusted."

Rob offered his hand out to Klink in mock congratulations. "Well great. Another victory for the illustrious Luftwaffe and the thousand year Reich."

Klink almost took his hand out of habit, then retracted, embarrassed. "The war is over any day now. I fight for Germany, not for the Reich anyway. But I have a point, Hogan, if you'd only listen."

"I'm all ears, Kommadant," Rob said, leaning back into the seat to listen to Klink's scheme.

"If I can convince the Soviets I'm loyal to their cause, they will use me. I speak German, and they are trying to grab as much of Germany as they can from the other allies. They will station me in Germany where I can help those they occupy, maybe even those of Hammelberg again. That might be hoping for too much though. I am sure with your testimony about my years of Nazi defiance – perhaps even expand my part in whatever devious work you and your men did behind my back – they will be convinced."

It was, Rob admitted to himself, a fair plan. It was incredulous that Klink had hatched it, but a good plan all the same. "And in return for my cooperation?" he asked.

"Your freedom," Klink said solemnly. "I swear that I will work my utmost to free you from here and send you back to America or England or wherever you'd like."

"Funny, but that doesn't reassure me all that much,"said Rob. Then an idea came to him. "But I know what you can do. You can send a message to contacts in London – the ones that can pressure the Soviets. They might have the leverage that you and your balding head might lack."

Klink sensitively patted his scalp, fingering the few stray hairs fondly. "Yes, I see. That could work. Yes, I will send any messages that you want."

A knot of hope formed in Rob's stomach. A light was appearing at the end of this long, long tunnel. "We have ourselves a deal then," he said, extending his hand in earnest now. Klink shook it, and their eyes locked. Partners again, however unwilling, thought Rob.

"I will send for you for your testimony," said Klink. "Meanwhile, this conversation never happened."


	8. Chapter 8

**April 18, 1945**

**Kinch's Home**

The sharp ring of a telephone echoed across the house, jerking Danny Greene back to reality. Kinch paused in his retelling and hurried off to the receiver in the other room, the clip of his crutches making odd metallic noises on the tile. As the man disappeared, Danny looked over at his wife and brother-in-law.

"I feel like I've gone the pictures," Danny joked. "I mean, I know crazy stuff happens in war, but this is _crazy._" Crazy. Like a sabotage ring run out of a Prisoner of War Camp. Like a tunnel network mirroring the subways in New York City. Like beautiful undercover agents falling in love with Rob Hogan, while passing him secrets that could win a world war. Danny wasn't sure he wanted to know how this rather blasé encounter with the Soviets turned out. He wasn't sure he would believe it.

Emma reached over and took his hand. "If it was anyone else besides Rob, coming from anyone else besides this Ivan Kinchloe, I wouldn't believe it. But as much as I don't want to believe what he's saying, I know somewhere inside of me that it's true."

"Unlike those cheery letters he sent us," Greg added.

They were right, Danny realized. He might not know the eldest Hogan sibling well, but even he, reading Rob's letters, had realized they were lies. "And now we know that Rob's alive," he said, trying to find a way to be optimistic about the situation.

"In February. It's April. A lot could happen in that time, especially with the war coming to a climax." Although Emma was clearly worried about her brother, she did not allow her voice to show it, instead trying to be rational and practical.

Danny heard the click of the receiver and the uneven footsteps of Kinch and his crutches returning to the room. "You want to find your brother, yes? Even if it means risking, well, risking a lot?" he asked them, nervously clutching his hands together.

"Of course we do." Greg Hogan spoke for them all. Briefly, images of Emma and Bryan flickered in Danny's mind, as well as images of his own parents, and then Emma's parents. Family. He'd said a million times that they were his life. Now it appeared it was time to put those words to the test.

"Good." Kinch said, carefully sizing each of them up. "That was my contact in D.C. on the phone. All the big wigs from the Allied High Command are meeting tomorrow afternoon to discuss their post-war plans. They want me to attend, pass on any information I gained from my corner in Germany. I've been debriefed, of course, but they still want my experience on the ground."

Greg snapped his fingers. "So you have what they want. The ball is in our court."

Smiling, Kinch began to put away their tea cups. "Yes. And it's time that I make the play I should have made two months ago."

* * *

**Germany, Outside Stalag 13**

**February 17, 1945**

The night was black, blacker than Kinch's skin, but it did not faze him. It was nights like these that Kinch was able to run outside missions; normally, his ethnicity prohibited him from mixing freely with the locals in the day, despite his German language skills. Ahead, he heard more than saw Newkirk's form slipping through the underbrush. The Englishman was as noisy as a grizzly bear in the woods.

They had been walking for nearly forty-five minutes after he and Newkirk had left their "borrowed" car on the side of the road. Ahead, there had been a checkpoint, and they hadn't had the time to arrange the necessary paperwork for a smooth crossing. His flashlight was dull, failing to highlight the smaller roots and branches, and several times already, Kinch had tripped.

Suddenly, the noises of Newkirk's footsteps halted. Kinch squinted into the darkness to see the cause. He navigated a few more tree branches and saw the cause. Ahead, scattered lights twinkled in the distance and certainly a watch line would be posted. Was this the Soviet camp or German patrol? Both were prevalent in these woods, so close to the front. It was too dark to make out any true markings. They had only the word of the underground group that this was its destination.

Kinch dug into his pocket for binoculars. The lenses allowed him to see a few figures milling ahead, but they did not reveal any colors. Nerves twitched in his gut. Was the Colonel already in the camp? How could they alert them?

"See anything?" whispered Newkirk in his ear, causing Kinch to start and nearly drop the glasses.

"Just some men, not sure who they belong to," Kinch said, handing them over to Newkirk so the Englishman could have a look.

After a moment, Newkirk put down the glasses without further result. "What now?" he asked. "Barge in there and ask for their leader?"

"As underground leaders or Nazi officers? Pick the wrong one and we're dead men."

Frustrated, Newkirk raised the glasses again in hope of receiving a clue of the allegiance of the military unit. "What if we just go as lost German civilians? Then at least we can know who they are with, and perhaps even find the Colonel."

"In the middle of the night? With my skin color and your accent? Who do you think we'd be fooling?" Kinch saw the appeal in the plan but knew it to be folly. There had to be another way to warn Hogan. What would he do in their place? No doubt cook up some overcomplicated plan that somehow found its way to success.

"…just say here til morning, then we'd see," Newkirk was saying. An idea hit Kinch.

"What if go as the truth?"

"You mean, tell them that we are POW sabotage group hoping to stop their Colonel from selling out to the Soviets? I think you've got as crazy as Hogan," exclaimed Newkirk.

"Well, not the _whole _truth. Just the bit about being escaped POWs. If they are Soviets, we are in luck. We can find the Colonel and warn him not to wait for London tells us to escape in mass, or until we get moved closer to Berlin to wait for the war to be over…"

"…and if their Germans?"

"Well, then we go back to Klink for a 'tough but fair' speech, and we send others to try again."

Newkirk thought this over. "Why can't we just wait until morning?"

"Because then, my dear Peter, we'll definitely a have 'tough but fair' speech for missing role call. Given the choice of a possibility of said speech or being guaranteed one, I'd go for the former."

This seemed to appease the Englishman, and they picked a tree in which to make a cache for their objects that might not seem normal on escaping POWs, such as a handgun. Kinch crouched down and pulled the dry leaves and snow patch from the hollow of the tree while Newkirk shown the flashlight on the grove to mark the location into his memory.

Click. The sharp, unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked. Kinch's heart caught in his throat as he looked around for the owner of the gun. Fifty feet away, he spotted them – four members of a German patrol with guns pointed at Newkirk. Damn.

Luck hadn't completely abandoned them yet; the patrol hadn't spotted Kinch yet. Indecision filled him; should he jump to Newkirk's defense, or wait and watch? Hugging the ground, he grabbed his gun and decided to watch. He could not defeat four guards by himself.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?"the leader of the guards loudly demanded of Newkirk. The Englishman said in German something Kinch couldn't quite hear; Newkirk tended to speak softly in German to hide his accent. The leader shook his gun threateningly, and Kinch assumed it wasn't 's high strung temperament was getting the better of him again.

"I ask again, who are you? None of your insolence or we will shoot and leave you to worms!"

Shouts were heard in the distance, this time in a language Kinch could not understand. Russian. He wasn't sure if he should laugh or cry. A bright light cut through the trees and the Russian voices grew more pronounced.

The German guards froze, looking at one another, surprised at the sudden intrusion of their enemies. Quickly seizing up the situation, the leader jerked his head, signaling for a retreat before the Soviets could reach them. Outnumbered and outgunned, the Germans would have no chance of victory.

Newkirk seized the opportunity; amidst the momentary confusion, he began to struggle with his captors. _Just let him go, _Kinch thought. _Come on Krauts, save your hides. _

All at once, several things happened at once. Newkirk jerked away from the nearest guard, making a break for the forest. Startled, the German guard gave a shout of surprise and managed to grab the Englishman's lower leg. Corresponding shouts arose from the Soviet line, perhaps fifty yards away. They began to rush towards the German patrol.

And then someone – Kinch wasn't sure who – let fire a shot.

The soldiers from both sides, tense from days of uncertainty, or exhaustion from a war that dragged on too long, did what they were trained to do: shoot. Cries filled the night air the men began to hurry towards each other, tripping in the darkness. Further back, the Soviet camp had noticed the shots and was responding with cries of their own.

Damn them all, thought Kinch. Damn their plan. He and Newkirk needed to flee the area in the chaos –uninjured if that was possible – and the sooner the better. The threat facing them by the Soviet-Stalag 13 alliance was far less imminent than that of the current gun battle.

Hugging the ground, Kinch army crawled towards the direction where he had last spotted Newkirk. The lights of the soldiers were illuminating and leaving chaotically as their owners searched for enemies; their schizophrenia destroyed Kinch's nightvision, leaving only shadows and flashes of light. He spotted a man fall to his left, but could not tell the allegiance of the soldier.

For a moment, Kinch felt he was back in the sky the night he had been shot down over Dusseldorf. That night, as he spun through the sky, every plane represented a threat to him, with any stray shot like to curtail his life. And, sparing that, he would be alone, in Germany – the land of enemy. Hopelessness had ensured him then; it threatened to do so again.

A momentary light fell upon the blue of a coat to the left – the color of coat Newkirk had been wearing. Gun in hand, Kinch risked rising to a crouch to hurry to his friend. He lost sense of the scope of the battle raging around him; shots seemed to be coming from everywhere. The night had tricked all the fighters – surely four Germans couldn't cause this much of a gunbattle – and the Soviets were firing blindly into the night. A sure reason for the saying to think first and shoot later.

Kinch reached the tree where he had spotted the coat and saw the shadowy figure of Newkirk kneeling behind it. "Peter," he hissed. "It's me. Are you okay?"

Over the noise of the gunshots, it was possible that Newkirk hadn't heard him; the Englishman didn't respond. Yet something was wrong. The feeling of doom grew in Kinch's stomach. Upon closer look, Newkirk was not kneeling by the tree, but leaning on it for support. "Peter," Kinch said again, this time louder. He reached out and touched his friend's shoulder. His hand came away wet and sticky. Blood.

"Kinch," his friend said, turning his head to meet his gaze. "My streak. It's gone." His voice was rough and pained.

"What -?"

"My luck. But it's yours now."

No. If it hadn't been a game before, it certainly was not now. Kinch struggled to string together his thoughts to form a coherent plan for taking Newkirk with him without further injury adding to the wounds already taken, wounds Kinch could only guess at.

Suddenly, Kinch's weight crumpled beneath him as his calf exploded in fire. A second explosion came from his right side. Kinch's world closed into blackness, his hand still on Newkirk's shoulder, his blood mingling with his friends' on the cold ground.

* * *

**April 18, 1945**

A blanket of silence filled Greg Hogan's car as Kinch paused in his tale. He was driving them slowly up the highway back towards D.C., but his mind focused only enough to keep the car on the road. The rest of him was back two years ago, fighting the war. Parading across his vision was a line of bodies, all grievously injured, all without faces. Greg had taken a scalpel in one hand and a prayer in the other and tried to save their lives.

The bodies transformed; one of the bodies wore Rob's face, mangled and bloody. "Help me, Greg," he said, reaching out to his brother. "Help me." Greg backed away, horrified. He spun to find the same body, only this time wearing Kinch's face. "You wanted to know," the man said, raising a bleeding stump of a leg. "You wanted the truth." Greg wanted to protest, to say that he only wanted to help, only wanted to love. Kinch just laughed at him. "You can't help. Love is already dead."

* * *

"You swear to all that you have said today, Hogan?" the Soviet Major said in a stilted German. Beside him, a young junior officer clattered out the details of the interview on a loud typewriter. Rob stood in front of them, where he had been standing all morning, hands cuffed in front of him. There was no trust, not now, not ever.

"I swear. I swear on my God, on your lack of God, on my mother, and my sister. I swear as an officer and a gentleman." Careful, Rob, he warned himself. The time was too delicate to allow a slip of patience to ruin any of the remaining hope he had.

"You realize how wary we are to trust the testimony of a traitor. Even if it is as you say, that Klink has been your accomplice and an allied sympathizer, taking your word is a serious risk. And if you and this Kilnk were such allies in the war, how do I know that the two of you won't double cross me?" The Major appeared amused at his game; he had reached his decision nearly an hour ago on Klink. This part was all for Rob's benefit.

"With respect, sir, what your term my betrayal has yet to be factually proven. I will further, remind you, that your decisions regarding Klink do not concern me. He was an ally in as much as he was the front for my operation. No more."

The major considered for a moment. Then, his expression changed and Rob could tell that this game was losing its amusement. "Sergeant," he commanded to the junior officer. "Send the records of this transcription on to the Colonel. It seems that we have found who we were looking for in this Klink after all."

The breath that Rob had been unconsciously holding for the past half hour escaped out of him, leaving Rob momentarily dizzy. "Sir," he asked, before the Major could dismiss him. "Have you heard yet from General Barton? You said last week that –"

"I recall what I said, Hogan," the Major interrupted icily. "Do not presume to remind me. When there is information concerning your betrayal from the General and it is time to bring your case under further consideration, you will know."

"But, sir –"

"Dismissed, Hogan."

As the guards came to escort Rob from the office, he felt himself wildly nostalgic for Stalag 13 and Colonel Klink.


	9. Chapter 9

**April 19, 1945**

**Washington, DC**

They drove back to Washington in Emma's car, with Greg at the wheel and Kinch riding shotgun. Emma leaned against Danny's shoulder in the back seat, watching the still-fallow April fields slowly give way into small towns and trying not to think of the very real possibility that Rob was dead. That after all that he had done – including running a sabotage operation as a POW – he had found one piece of bad luck he couldn't outthink.

"They told us he was dead," Kinch had told them. "Found among the causalities from the taking of the Stalag. I didn't believe it. Just the Colonel, up to a scheme again. Nothing to worry about. But that was the last we heard of him."

At least there had been no funeral, and none of the bodies had been released, not that Kinch had heard. Taken to the Red Cross for processing, the Soviets had said in an official report to Allied High Command. Not much was shared between the forces on the political level, but the consular officials managed to share information on citizens. Barely. That much Kinc had discovered, and it was on this one shred of hope that Emma rested. They weren't sure that Rob was dead, and until they were Emma wasn't going to stop looking. She was Rob's sister, after all.

Hope rested on the lack of body and one other thing, the thing that merited this trip to the Pentagon. There was still no explanation for the Allied High Command orders to hold back family notification. Granted, Rob's case was certainly special. Emma had to admit she didn't know what the standard operating procedures were for dealing with the family members of spies.

"What if they don't tell us anything?" she asked to no one in particular. "I mean, they don't share classified military secrets with just anyone."

Kinch looked back at her with a slight smile. "That's where I come in," he said. "I know more military secrets that they would care to have the public know about. And while I'm not about to do anything to hurt the war effort, I do know a thing or two that would be highly embarrassing to some of the big brass. No, I think if I pressure them enough and the three of you play that part of the grieving family, that combination of guilt and fear should get us anything we need."

"Besides, we're already in the know," said Danny. "What, with what you've told us already, Kinch. There's no reason to lie to us anymore."

They arrived at the Pentagon in late afternoon. With the passcode that Kinch had been given over the telephone and a cursory inspection of the papers for the other three, Greg was able to drive into the motorpool. A lieutenant colonel was waiting for them at the door.

"Sgt. Kinchloe," the man said, returning Kinch's salute. "I didn't know you were bringing guests."

"A last minute change of plans," Kinch said, "but their inclusion is quiet merited, as you will soon see."

The halls were bustling, and Emma quickly became turned around as the navigated several long corridors. In his dress uniform, Kinch would have fit in but for his crutches and his skin color. The others stood no such chance. All-in-all, they attracted several stares from passing officers, but their escort paid them no mind.

They reached a long meeting room where they were greeted by two men, both brigadier generals, with one star pinned smartly on their collars. Like the lieutenant, the both cast suspicious gazes in the direction of the Hogan family.

"Thanks for coming, Sergeant," said the first, a thin, pale man with gray hair. "How's your leg?"

"Recovering just fine, thank you sir," said Kinch. A pause, and then he continued. "Sirs, I know you are wondering about my inclusion of others in this meeting, but let me introduce them and you will see why I have done so. General Maddox, General Marshall, might I introduced the family of the Colonel Hogan? His brother, Dr. and First Lieutenant Greg Hogan, his sister, Mrs. Emma Greene, and her husband, Mr. Daniel Greene."

The mood changed considerably, and both generals warmly shook their hands. "A pleasure to meet any relation to Colonel Hogan," said squint-eyed general Marshall. "Sergeant, how much have your informed them of your undertakings?"

"A broad mission overview and details on the last bit up until my departure from Germany."

* * *

**February 18, 1945**

**Somewhere in Germany**

Kinch awoke in a haze of pain that spread all over his body, but seemed to be concentrated in his right leg. He blinked his eyes, trying to take in his surroundings, but everything seemed fuzzy. God his head hurt. What had happened?

He remembered only flashes: in the tunnel, with Tiger, walking through the snow with Newkirk, gunshots everywhere, lighting up the still winter sky. And then here, in this still room. Where was he? In the hands of Germans? Back in Stalag 13? Rescued by some German civilians? Found by the Soviet advance forces?

And then, slowly, he realized he wasn't in a room at all, but in fact moving. The back of a truck, perhaps? That would explain the darkness. There was a jolt that sent fire through his body. Kinch groaned. It looked to be the beginning of a very, very long trip.

He had blacked out only once before their trip came to an end, and only briefly at that as far as he could judge. Kinch wondered whether or not that was a good sign and couldn't decide. As the truck ground to a halt, Kinch began to make out very German voices. _That answers one question. _

Then bright light entered and hands lifted him. He bit back a cry as they transported him to a cot.

"Careful not to jolt that leg," a man's voice said in German. "I've put a pressure bandage on it, but it might not hold."

His cot swayed and he struggled to look up at the blurry faces that carried him. They didn't appear familiar. He tried to speak, but found all his energy consumed on managing pain. At last, he came to a stop and lay staring at a wood ceiling. Firm hands pressed blankets about him.

_Better ask, _he told himself, as he tried to key in on the voices murmuring about him. _Not helping anything by just lying here. _

"Wh-wh-where?" he managed in German. He knew that being black, he wouldn't likely pass for a native, but there was no sense in giving everything away at once.

A great commotion occurred to his left, and the face of a redheaded woman swam into focus. "You are awake?" she asked, slowly and clearly in German.

Kinch managed a groan.

"Good. Now. Just listen. I will give you some laudanum for the pain, but first, we need to talk. You are safe. You can call me Greta, and we are friends of Marie. Of Tiger."

Relief sagged Kinch's body, and he closed his eyes for a second. One more time, he had gotten lucky.

"We were told to look out for two Allied POWs in this area. As I understand it, your unit sent out for help when you did not return. Obviously. You were shot. "

_Yeah. Felt that._

"My husband found you in the woods while hunting. Food is…difficult to come by sometimes. You were found amid bodies of two German soldiers and signs of a gunfight. Evidence of other injured or dead bodies being removed was obvious."

Then Kinch remembered everything. The hunt to warn the Colonel of the devastation the Soviets had wrought upon Stalag 19. The report of hundreds of prisoners, left without supplies, trying to march across disputed German territory to reach the western Allied forces. Avoiding them might not be possible, but the Colonel needed to know and be able to negotiate a better deal. Should the Germans leave and the Soviets deny supplies to Stalag 13, not even Hogan's network could provide enough all the men to last until safe passage could be secured. Chaos. Starvation.

And, above those gloomy thoughts, was the memory of Newkirk bleeding out by the tree.

"Newkirk?" He managed to say. "Friend?"

Greta took his hand, understanding the question. "We found an Englishman with you. He was still alive, but I will be honest, he was very badly injured. We could not treat him hear. Peter, my husband, arranged to have you transported here, and he alerted the Ingolstadt hospital of the Englishman and the dead Germans. I know the people there, and they will try and save your friend if they can."

_Better than I could have hoped for with the way he was bleeding. _He tried to focus on planning next steps. Escaped prisoners, both he and Newkirk, officially. Well, unlikely the Germans would bother transferring Klink now, so the no-escape record didn't matter. Shot. Badly shot. The Colonel making disastrous arrangements with Soviets.

Kinch couldn't think, couldn't focus, not with a thousand lumberjacks sawing at his leg. The others would have to take it from here. He would have to trust them, at least for today. His distress obvious, Greta rose and returned with a spoonful of an amber liquid. Too weak to resist, he swallowed and slithered back into darkness.

* * *

**February 20, 1945**

**Ingolstadt, Germany**

Something was very, very wrong. After long hours of fever-filled hallucinations, Kinch suddenly awoke clearly. He lay on a small bed, covered in a red-and-blue checkered quilt. He ran a quick check for pain and found that something was different.

Oh, his leg still hurt – hell, his head was pounding, and it felt as though someone had been playing drums on his chest – but it was a consistent, dull pain. He couldn't identify the specific source of the pain. It just lay in one source of mild agony starting mid-thigh and moving downwards.

With titanic effort, he lifted his right arm and turned back the quilt to visually identify the damage. And gagged. Despite what his nerves were telling him, it was very plain what was different: the bottom half of his leg was gone.

He lay back again, trying desperately not to panic. He closed his eyes and willed this new reality away. Pretended it was last week, that he was safe in Stalag 13, and everything was okay.

_It's a sad reality when your version of safe and normal is a POW camp, _an ugly voice in his head said. Kinch willed it away. Instead, he took a deep breath and looked back at the remains – the stump – of his right leg. It had been neatly bandaged, he saw. That was something. No signs of infection. The chills running down his spine testified both to his horror and the fever he was sure he had, but it was nothing compared to the sweaty daze of before.

Everything would be different from today.

There was a creaking and loud footsteps and the rosy face of Greta appeared before him.

" You're awake!" she said cheerfully. Then she saw the exposed blanket and her smile faded. "I'm so sorry. The leg couldn't be saved. We took out the bullet, but it was too late. There was dirt in the wound, infection everywhere. I called my friend, a veterinarian, and he did his best. He doesn't even really support us giving aid to the enemy. Not that it matters anymore. We all know it's over in every way that counts."

As she talked, Greta's strong hands guided Kinch back into the pillows. He allowed her to guide him down, let her place a compress on his face, the hot steam dripping down into his ears. With each drip, he saw the faces of his team at Stalag 13. He would never be one of them, operating alongside them. It was over for him too.

For a few minutes, Greta left his side and busied herself across the room. Kinch buried himself in the sounds of her heating water, the whistle of the steaming kettle mercifully cutting all thought. Moments later, she pressed a cup of warm broth into his hands. After Kinch spilled over himself on his first two attempts, she took the bowl from him and spooned it herself.

"We do have some good news. We have a friend who contracts with the German army to transport uniforms from the nearby textile factory lumber to many military bases. He is taking a trip two days from now that will take him near the western lines. He will take you to friends there, who will help you to the British forces."

Kinch digested this. He was going home. A cripple. No longer fit to serve. " A military man?" he said, finding a line of questioning that seemed relatively safe.

" Don't worry," said Greta. "He will not betray you. But we all must eat, no matter our politics."

Kinch nodded, but found he didn't care – wouldn't care, in fact, if a turnip calling itself Adolf Hitler had announced it would transport him to the Allies.

"What about Stalag 13?" he asked, desperately reaching out for news. "Newkirk?" A pang of guilt struck later, as he remembered the dire peril of Newkirk.

Greta stopped feeding him broth. "Are you sure you are ready? What I have to say isn't nice."

"Worse than waking up without a leg?"

She nodded her understanding.

"Last I heard, your English friend is still in the hospital. We haven't made any inquiries, though. It would be strange. But we would know if he was dead or moved. That's the best I can do."

That wasn't it then. The bad news wasn't Newkirk's death. It was somehow something worse.

"And?"

"Word came in yesterday that that the Soviet forces have overrun Hammelburg. The local German soldiers made a last stand at Stalag 13, but we heard this morning that the camp had been surrendered. We don't know much more but a list of German casualties. And one more bit of news," she paused, met his eyes. "On the list of casualties was your senior prisoner of war. I am very sorry."

Two days later, Kinch rode in the false bottom of a transport truck to Stuttgart, from where a pair of dairy farmers hid him in their milk cart and took him by horse and wagon to an Allied checkpoint.

Two days after that, Kinch was in London.

* * *

**April 20, 1945**

**The Pentagon, Washington D.C.**

In the end, it took a phone call from Senator Coats to release the proper information. Tired of being told that "regrettably" it was "unfortunate" that all documents regarding Stalag 13 were highly classified, no exception – even for Kinch, Greg had called his friend Alex, who had called his father, who had pulled his weight and weaseled the Senator to apply for special circumstances. As Emma understood it, the Senator had spent several hours on the phone in loud conversations with Allied High Command, and in the end, limited permission to access certain military files had been granted.

As part of the bargain, Kinch had spent the past 24 hours sequestered with intelligence officials of varying rank and agency. From what Emma could gather from sitting on hard stone benches in long, nondescript hallways, it seemed that all American intelligence bureaus were in tight competition with both each other, the other Allied forces, and businesses to get the best slices of conquered territory for themselves. And apparently that involved squeezing Kinch's knowledge of the German underground network to the last drop.

But at last, around four o'clock, General Marshall had called for the three of them to enter a secured room with no windows. On the table, lay their prize – three stacks of files.

" You have two hours and two hours only. Do not make any copies or write anything down. Do not reveal this information to anyone not expressly listed within the files. You will please sign the disclose waivers affirming your proper treatment of sensitive military information."

He hovered over them, panting loudly in their ears, until they had each thoroughly read and signed the long document on the rules regarding the information they were to receive and the penalties for breaking said rules. Then, casting suspicious glares in their direction, he left.

"Friendly, helpful sort of fellow, isn't he?" Danny joked as he picked up the first file.

"At least we have what we want," said Greg. "The rest doesn't matter."

Inside the files, they found stacks of information on the Operation Papa Bear beginning from the month of February. Transcripts of debriefings with local agents (listed under code name, with several names blanked out) and debriefed returned soldiers like Kinch mixed with radio exchange records and newspaper clippings. Also included were several notes made by the intelligence officials working on Operation Papa Bear.

"Shame we couldn't meet with him," Danny had said, when he came across the first of these. "It would shorten up this investigation."

"I prefer not to go down that rabbit hole," Emma replied. "We are in deep enough in covert affairs as it is."

By the end of the two hours, the three of them had pieced together an alarming narrative.

It seemed that when Kinch and Newkirk had failed to return by the early hours, the camp had made contact an Agent Sleeping Beauty in Hammelburg and retrieved the new radio code for London. The radio communications that followed were well documented. Goldilocks, based in London, had tasked Papa Bear's organization to renegotiate with the Soviets to leave Stalag 13 and the Hammelburg area a German zone , focusing instead of marching straight north until Berlin.

_Benefits both Allied forces to keep intelligence center with Papa Bear as long as Axis mounts serious military presence in central Germany. _

However, several frantic messages sent from Stalag 13 indicated the mission wasn't going well.

One transmitted message read: _Grizzly Bears closed to company after deadly shooting encounter with Big Bad Wolf. _Followed by: _Winter_ _is coming very quickly. No way to talk with Winter Gods about waiting a few months for freeze. _And, more disturbing: _ Local wolves gathering in Papa's den before Winter._

"It's clear the mission failed," Emma said. "Rob brought them right to the camp, not knowing it was better to wait with the Germans."

"I'll bet the fast advance scared all the local military. And where better to make a stand and kill a few Russians in rural Germany than the guard towers of a prison camp? You have high vantage point, natural barrier -"

"- natural hostages," cut in Greg.

"And that," agreed Danny. "Which results in a pretty massive battle. The Soviets have numbers, but they think the camp is going to be delivered to them. "

Reports after this point relied on eyewitness accounts from a few prisoners that had trickled back to the Allied forces in the weeks to come. But the reports were sensationalized and unreliable – simple impressions of chaos of gunfire and injured soldiers, Axis and Allied alike, bleeding out on the compound.

_I stopped paying attention to uniform, _wrote the camp medic, an American named Wilson who had been debriefed on March 24. _There was no time. There were hardly any supplies. A German doctor was helping me, and we were up to our elbows in blood. _

In the end, predictably, the Soviets had won. A major named Ivan Kozlov took command of the Stalag 13 on February 20. No further communication had come directly from the camp. Instead, the remaining few reports came were from other (nameless) intelligence operatives operating in the region, with the exception of a Red Cross note of the placement of several mid-rank German officers listed as POWs to be transferred to Moscow.

_Soviet forces using former Stalag 13 as a base, _read a report from February 27. This was followed by the announcement of a new assignment for the operative. _With the Hammelburg area in Soviet hands and no communications or missions from Papa Bear (who is indeed reported deceased) , I am moving my operation closer to Berlin. Mark mission Hammelburg off as accomplished!_

And then, one final footnote from General Butler, an expanded version of the note they had read earlier. _Soviet allies report Papa Bear dead in recapturing Stalag 13. Some field agents doubt this report, but with no evidence, we will mark his file accordingly. Hold family notification until further investigation can be conducted._

End of file.

* * *

A break came one evening, as Rob joined his barracks in line for their daily ration of break and soup. _Give us this day our daily bread, _he thought as he picked up the hardened slice. In the past few weeks, the Lord's prayer had become more real to him. Funny. Before the war, he had never been a very religious guy. Even in his darkness moments held by the Gestapo, when the end seemed before him, he hadn't turned to God.

But he had prepared to die for county, prepared to even be tortured to support his mission at Stalag 13. He hadn't been prepared for this new form of torture, this prolonged, senseless imprisonment by an official ally to his country! His status, in the eyes of his keepers, had subtly shifted from a prisoner of war to an ordinary prisoner. This shift didn't mean much in his living conditions, but it changed the whole narrative that Rob played in his head.

Consumed with these thoughts, he tripped on the uneven ground and sprawled, his meager ration of soup splashing the man ahead of him in line. Rob grunted, the wind knocked out of him. For a moment, he did not have the energy to rise.

"You okay?" The English voice, deeply accented though it was, sent a bolt of electricity through Rob. He looked up to see a dark man dripping in soup.

"Yes. Yes. Thank you." He scrambled to his feet, re-energized by the possibility of a conversation. The days surrounded by Slavic voices had been their own form of isolation. "SYou speak English?"

The man nodded. "Some. Not good English."

Smiling for the first time in days, weeks, Rob stuck out his hand. "Robert Hogan. Bad English is good English to me."

"Vlad. Vlad Popov." They shook.

A guard yelled at them to in the words that Rob figured meant 'keep moving.' He did, following Vlad to their barracks and barely containing his new-found elation.

_Thank you, God, _he whispered in prayer. With Vlad, he had a translator to break the language barrier. He could communicate with those around him, and they could begin to plan a way home.


End file.
